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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/poemsplaysessays00gold_1 


CONTENTS. 


Dr  Aikin's  Memoirs  of  the  Author . . . »  7 

Remarks  on  the  Poetry  of  Dr.  Goldsmith,  by  Dr.  Aikin. . ,  <  38 
V  erses  on  the  death  of  Dr.  Goldsmith .  55 

POEMS. 

The  Traveller;  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society .  66 

The  Deserted  Village . 84 

The  Hermit,  a  Ballad .  . .  101 

The  Haunch  of  Venison,  to  Lord  Clare  . .  110 

Retaliation  .  115 

- Postscript  .  122 

The  Double  Transformation,  a  Tale  .  123 

The  Gift:  to  Iris,  in  Bow-street,  Coven t-garden  .  127 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  .  128 

The  Logicians  Refuted:  Imitation  of  Dean  Swift  . 

A  new  Simile  :  in  the  Manner  oi  Swift  . . .  181 


- 


IV  CONTENTS. 


Description  of  an  Author’s  Bed-Chamber  . . .  133 

A  Prologue  by  the  Poet  Laberius,  whom  Coesar  forced 

upon  the  Stage  . . .  134 

An  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize  . . .  13f3 

On  a  beautiful  Youth  struck  blind  by  Lightning  .  138 

The  Clown’s  Reply  .  137 

Epitaph  on  Dr  Parnell  .  *  37 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon  . .  137 

Stanzas  on  the  taking  of  Quebec  .  138 

Stanzas  on  Woman  ;38 

Sonnet  .  133 

Songs  .  133 

Song,  intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer  . . . .  140 

Prologue  to  Zobeide,  a  Tragedy  . . .  140 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  the  Sisters  .  142 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkloy  and  Miss  Catley  ......  144 

Epilogue  intended  for  Mrs.  Bulkley  .  147 

Epilogue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Lee  Lewes  .  149 

Threnodia  Augustalis  .  151 

The  Captivity:  an  Oratorio  .  162 

Lines  attributed  to  Dr.  Goldsmith  .  176 


PLAYS. 

177 

260 


The  Gcod-Natured  Man,  a  Comedy  . 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or  the  Mistakes  of  a  Night 


•  •  •  • 


CONTENTS. 


V 

introduction  .  867 

Love  and  Friendship,  or  the  Story  of  Alcander  and  Septi- 

mius,  taken  from  a  Byzantine  Historian  .  371 

On  Happiness  of  Temper  . .  375 

.Description  of  various  Clubs  .  380 

On  the  Policy  of  concealing  our  Warns,  or  Poverty  .  StfO 

On  Generosity  and  Justice  .  397 

On  the  Education  of  Youth  . . . .  401 

On  the  Versatility  of  popular  Favor  .  414 

Specimen  of  a  Magazine  in  Miniature  . .  418 

Rules  for  Behavior  .  421 

Rules  for  Raising  the  Devil  .  422 

Beau  Tibbs  ;  a  Character  . . . .  423 

Beau  Tibbs  —  continued  . . . .  426 

On  the  Irresolution  of  Youth  .  431 

On  Mad  Dogs  . 435 

On  the  increased  Love  of  Life  with  Age  .  440 

Ladies’  Passion  for  levelling  Distinction  of  Dress  .  443 

Asem,  an  Eastern  Tale ;  or,  the  Wisdom  of  Providence  in 

the  moral  Government  of  the  World  .  449 

On  the  English  Clergy,  and  Popular  Preachers  .  458 

On  the  Advantages  to  be  derived  from  sending  a  judicious 

Traveller  into  Asia  .  464 

Reverie  at  the  Boar  s-head  Tavern,  in  Eastcheap  .  469 

On  Quack  Doctors  .  486 

Adventures  of  a  Strolling  Player  .  489 

Rules  to  be  observed  at  a  Russian  Assembly  .  500 

The  Genius  of  Love,  an  Eastern  Apologue  . . .  502 


OONTKHTB. 


vs 

Distresses  of  an  English  disabled  Soldier  . .  SO? 

On  the  Frailty  of  Man  . . .  514 

On  Friendship  .  51C 

Folly  of  attempting  to  learn  Wisdom  in  Retirement  ....  520 

Letter,  by  a  Common-Council-man  at  the  time  of  the  Coro¬ 
nation 


A  *sconid  Letter  desoribmjr  the  Coronation 


584 

mi 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY.' 


BY  HENRY  T.  TUCKEKMAN. 

It  is  sometimes  both  pleasing  and  profitable  to  recur  to 
those  characters  in  literary  history  who  are  emphatically  favor¬ 
ites,  and  to  glance  at  the  causes  of  their  popularity.  Such 
speculations  frequently  afford  more  important  results  than  the 
mere  gratification  of  curiosity.  They  often  lead  to  a  clearer 
perception  of  the  true  tests  of  genius,  and  indicate  the  princi¬ 
ple  and  methods  by  which  the  common  mind  may  be  most 
successfully  addressed.  The  advantage  of  such  retrospective 
inquiries  is  still  greater  at  a  period  like  the  present,  when  there 
is  such  an  obvious  tendency  to  innovate  upon  some  of  the  best 
established  theories  of  taste ;  when  the  passion  for  novelty 
seeks  for  such  unlicensed  indulgence,  and  invention  seems  to 
exhaust  itself  rather  upon  forms  than  ideas.  In  literature, 
especially,  we  appear  to  be  daily  losing  one  of  the  most  valu¬ 
able  elements  —  simplicity.  The  prevalent  taste  is  no  longer 
gratified  with  the  natural.  There  is  a  growing  appetite  for 
what  is  startling  and  peculiar,  seldom  accompanied  by  any  dis¬ 
criminating  demand  for  the  true  and  original ;  and  yet,  expe¬ 
rience  has  fully  proved  that  these  last  are  the  only  permanent 
elements  of  literature ;  and  no  healthy  mind,  cognizant  of  its 
own  history,  is  unaware  that  the  only  intellectual  alimenl 

*  From  “  Thoughts  on  the  Poets,”  by  H.  T.  T. 


Vlii  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 

which  never  palls  upon  the  taste,  is  that  which  is  least  indebt¬ 
ed  to  extraneous  accompaniments  for  its  relish. 

It  is  ever  refreshing  to  revert  to  first  pri nciples.  The  study 
of  the  old  masters  may  sometimes  make  the  modem  artist  de¬ 
spair  of  his  own  efforts  ;  but  if  he  have  the  genius  to  discover 
and  follow  out  the  great  principle  upon  which  they  wrought, 
he  will  not  have  contemplated  their  works  in  vain.  He  will 
have  learned  that  devotion  to  Nature  is  the  grand  secret  of 
progress  in  Art,  and  that  the  success  of  her  votaries  depends 
upon  the  singleness,  constancy,  and  intelligence  of  their  wor¬ 
ship.  If  there  is  not  enthusiasm  enough  to  kindle  this  flame 
in  its  purity,  nor  energy  sufficient  to  fulfil  the  sacrifice  required 
at  that  high  altar,  let  not  the  young  aspirant  enter  the  priest¬ 
hood  of  art.  When  the  immortal  painter  of  the  Transfigura¬ 
tion  was  asked  to  embody  his  ideal  of  perfect  female  loveliness, 
he  replied  —  there  would  still  be  an  infinite  distance  between 
his  work  and  the  existent  original.  In  this  profound  and  vivid 
perception  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  we  perceive  the  origin 
of  those  lovely  creations,  which,  for  more  than  three  hundred 
years,  have  delighted  mankind.  And  it  is  equally  true  of  the 
pen  as  the  pencil,  that  what  is  drawn  from  life  and  the  heart, 
alove  bears  the  impress  of  immortality.  Yet  the  practical 
faith  of  our  day  is  diametrically  opposed  to  this  truth.  The 
writers  of  our  times  are  constantly  making  use  of  artificial 
enginery.  They  have,  for  the  most  part,  abandoned  the  in¬ 
tegrity  of  purpose  and  earnest  directness  of  earlier  epochs. 
There  is  less  faith,  as  we  before  said,  in  the  natural;  and  when 
we  turn  from  the  midst  of  the  forced  and  hot-bed  products  of 
the  modern  school,  and  ramble  in  the  garden  of  old  English 
literature,  a  cool  and  calm  refreshment  invigorates  the  spirit, 
like  the  first  breath  of  mountain  air  to  the  weary  wayfarer. 


s 


GOLDSMITH. 


IX 


There  are  few  writers  of  the  period  more  generally  beloved 
than  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Of  his  contemporaries,  Burke  excelled 
him  in  splendor  of  diction,  and  Johnson  in  depth  of  thought 
The  former  continues  to  enjoy  a  larger  share  of  admiration, 
and  the  latter  of  respect,  but  the  labors  of  their  less  pretending 
companion  have  secured  him  a  far  richer  heritage  of  love. 
Of  all  posthumous  tributes  to  genins,  this  seems  the  most  truly 
desirable.  It  recognizes  the  man  as  well  as  the  author.  It  is 
called  forth  bv  more  interesting  characteristics  than  talent. 
It  bespeaks  a  greater  than  ordinary  association  of  the  individ¬ 
ual  with  liis  works,  and  looking  beyond  the  mere  embodiment 
of  his  intellect,  it  gives  assurance  of  an  attractiveness  in  his 
character  which  has  made  itself  felt  even  through  the  artificial 
medium  of  writing.  The  authors  are  comparatively  few,  who 
have  awrakened  this  feeling  of  personal  interest  and  affection. 
It  is  common,  indeed,  for  any  writer  of  genius  to  inspire  emo¬ 
tions  of  gratitude  in  the  breasts  of  those  susceptible  to  the 
charm,  but  the  instances  are  rare  in  which  this  sentiment  is 
vivified  and  elevated  into  positive  affection.  And  few,  I 
apprehend,  among  the  wits  and  poets  of  old  England,  have 
more  widely  awakened  it  than  Oliver  Goldsmith.  I  have  said 
this  kind  of  literary  fame  was  eminently  desirable.  There  is, 
indeed,  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the  thought  of  one 
of  the  gifted  of  our  race,  attaching  to  himself  countless  hearts 
by  the  force  of  a  charm  woven  in  by-gone  years,  when  envi¬ 
roned  by  neglect  and  discouragement.  Though  a  late,  it  is  a 
beautiful  recompense,  transcending  mere  critical  approbation, 
or  even  the  reverence  men  offer  to  the  monuments  of  mind. 
We  can  conceive  of  no  motive  to  effort  which  can  be  present¬ 
ed  to  a  man  of  true  feeling,  like  the  hope  of  winning  the  love 
of  his  kind  by  the  faithful  exhibition  of  himself.  It  is  a  nobler 


X. 


INTRODUCTORY  1SSSAY. 


purpose  than  that  entertained  by  heartless  ambition  Tha 
appeal  is  not  merely  to  the  judgment  and  imagination,  it  is  tc 
the  universal  heart  of  mankind.  Such  fame  is  emphatically 
rich.  It  gains  its  possessor  warm  friends  instead  of  mere 
admirers.  To  establish  such  an  inheritance  in  the  breast  cf 
humanity,  were  indeed  worthy  of  sacrifice  and  toil.  It  is  an 
offering  not  only  to  intellectual  but  to  moral  graces  and  its 
possession  argues  for  the  sons  of  fame  holier  qualities  than 
genius  itself.  It  eloquently  indicates  that  its  subject  is  not 
only  capable  of  interesting  the  general  mind  by  the  power  of 
his  creations,  but  of  captivating  the  feelings  by  tbe  earnest 
beauty  of  his  nature.  Of  all  oblations,  therefore,  we  deem  it 
the  most  valuable.  It  is  this  sentiment  with  which  the  lovers 
of  painting  regard  the  truest  interpreters  of  the  art.  They 
wonder  at  Michael  Angelo  but  love  Raphael,  and  gaze  upon 
the  pensively  beautiful  delineation  he  has  left  us  of  himself, 
with  the  regretful  tenderness  with  which  we  look  upon  the 
portrait  of  a  departed  friend.  The  devotees  of  music,  too, 
dwell  with  glad  astonishment  upon  the  celebrated  operas  of 
Rosini  and  some  of  the  German  composers,  but  the  memory 
of  I>ellini  is  absolutely  loved.  It  is  well  remarked  by  one  of 
Goldsmith’s  biographers,  that  the  very  fact  of  his  being  spoken 
of  always  with  the  epithet  “  poor  ”  attached  to  his  name,  is 
sufficient  evidence  of  the  kind  of  fame  he  enjoys.  Whence, 
.hen  the  peculiar  attraction  of  his  writings,  and  wherein  con¬ 
sist*  the  spell  which  has  so  long  rendered  his  works  the  favor¬ 
ites  of  sc  many  and  such  a  variety  of  readers  ? 

The  primary  and  all  pervading  charm  of  Goldsmith  is  his 
truth.  It  is  interesting  to  trace  this  delightful  characteristic, 
as  it  exhibits  itself  not  less  in  his  life  than  in  his  writings.  We 
see  ft  displayed  in  the  remarkable  frankness  which  distinguish 


GOLDSMITH. 


XI 


ed  his  intercourse  with  others,  and  in  that  winning  simplicity 
which  sc  frequently  excited  the  contemptuous  laugh  of  the 
worldly-wise,  but  failed  not  to  draw  towards  him  the  more  val¬ 
uable  sympathies  of  less  perverted  natures.  All  who  have 
sketched  his  biography  unite  in  declaring,  that  he  could  not 
dissemble  and  we  have  a  good  illustration  of  his  want  of 
lacc  in  concealing  a  defect,  in  the  story  which  is  related  of 
him  at  the  time  of  his  unsuccessful  attempt  at  medical  practice 
in  Edinburgh  —  when,  his  only  velvet  coat  being  deformed  by 
a  huge  patch  on  the  right  breast,  he  was  accustomed,  while  in 
the  drawing-room,  to  cover  it  in  the  most  awkward  manner 
with  his  hat.  It  was  his  natural  truthfulness  which  led  him  to 
so  candid  and  habitual  a  confession  of  his  faults.  Johnson 
ridiculed  him  for  so  freely  describing  the  state  of  his  feelings 
during  the  representation  of  his  first  play  ;  and,  throughout 
his  life,  the  perfect  honesty  of  his  spirit  made  him  the  subject 
of  innumerable  practical  jokes.  Credulity  is  perhaps  a  weak¬ 
ness  almost  inseparable  from  eminently  truthful  characters 
Yet,  if  such  is  the  case,  it  does  not  in  the  least  diminish  our 
faith  in  the  superiority  and  value  of  such  characters.  Waiving 
all  moral  considerations,  we  believe  it  can  be  demonstrated 
that  truth  is  one  of  the  most  essential  elements  of  real  great- 
ness,  and  surest  means  of  eminent  success.  Management, 
chicanery  and  cunning,  may  advance  men  in  the  career  of 
the  world;  it  may  forward  the  views  of  the  politician,  and 
clear  the  way  of  the  diplomatist.  But  when  humanity  is  to  be 
addressed  in  the  universal  language  of  genius ;  when,  through 
the  medium  of  literature  and  art,  man  essays  to  reach  the 
heart  of  his  kind,  the  more  sincere  the  appeal,  the  surer  its 
effect ;  the  mere  direct  the  call,  and  deeper  the  response.  In 
n  word,  the  more  largely  truth  enters  into  a  work,  the  more 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 


KU 

certain  the  fame  of  its  author.  But  a  few  months  since* 
the  Parisian  populace  crowding  around  the  church  where  the 
remains  of  Talleyrand  lay  in  state,  but  the  fever  of  curiosity 
alone  gleamed  from  their  eyes,  undimmed  by  tears.  When 
Goldsmith  died,  Reynolds,  then  in  the  full  tide  of  success, 
threw  his  pencil  aside  in  sorrow,  and  Burke  turned  from  the 
fast-brightening  vision  of  renown,  to  weep. 

Truth  is  an  endearing  quality.  None  are  so  beloved  as  the 
ingenuous.  We  feel  in  approaching  them  that  the  look  of 
welcome  is  unaffected —  that  the  friendly  grasp  is  from  the 
heart,  and  we  regret  their  departure  as  an  actual  loss.  And 
not  less  winningly  shines  this  high  and  sacred  principle  through 
the  labors  of  genius.  It  immortalizes  history  —  it  is  the  true 
origin  of  eloquence,  and  constitutes  the  living  charm  of  poetry 
When  Goldsmith  penned  the  lines  — 

“To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art,” 

he  furnished  the  key  to  his  peculiar  genius,  and  recorded  the 
secret  w  hich  has  embalmed  his  memory.  It  was  the  clearness 
of  his  own  soul  which  reflected  so  truly  the  imagery  of  life, 
He  did  but  transcribe  the  unadorned  convictions  that  glowed 
in  his  mind,  and  faithfully  traced  the  pictures  which  nature 
tlirew  upon  the  mirror  of  his  fancy.  Hence  the  unrivalled 
excellence  of  his  descriptions.  Rural  life  has  never  found  a 
sweeter  eulogist  To  countless  memories  have  his  village  land¬ 
scapes  risen  pleasantly,  when  the  “  murmur  ”  rose  at  eventide. 
Where  do  we  not  meet  with  a  kind-hearted  philosopher  de¬ 
lighting  in  some  speculative  hobby,  equally  dear  as  the  good 
Vicar’s  theory  of  Monogamy  ?  The  vigils  of  many  an  ardent 
student  have  been  beguiled  by  his  jwrtraiture  of  a  country 


GOLDSMITH. 


Xill 


clergyman  —  brightening  the  dim  vista  of  futurity  as  bis  owe 
ideal  of  destiny ;  and  who  has  not,  at  times,  caught  the  very 
solace  of  retirement  from  his  sweet  apostrophe  ? 

The  genius  of  Goldsmith  was  chiefly  fertilized  by  observa¬ 
tion.  He  was  not  one  of  those  who  regard  books  as  the  only, 
or  even  the  principal  sources  of  knowledge.  He  recognized 
and  delighted  to  study  the  unwritten  lore  so  richly  spread  over 
the  volume  of  nature,  and  shadowed  forth  so  variously  from 
the  scenes  of  every-day  life  and  the  teachings  of  individual  ex¬ 
perience.  There  is  a  class  of  minds,  second  to  none  in  native 
acuteness  and  reflective  power,  so  constituted  as  to  flourish 
almost  exclusively  by  observation.  Too  impatient  of  restraint 
to  endure  the  long  vigils  of  the  scholar,  they  are  yet  keenly 
alive  to  every  idea  and  truth  which  is  evolved  from  life.  With¬ 
out  a  tithe  of  that  spirit  of  application  that  binds  the  German 
student  for  years  to  his  familiar  tomes,  they  suffer  not  a  single 
impression  which  events  or  character  leave  upon  their  mem 
ories  to  pass  unappreciated.  Unlearned,  in  a  great  measure, 
in  the  history  of  the  past,  the  present  is  not  allowed  to  pass 
without  eliciting  their  intelligent  comment.  Unskilled  in  the 
technicalities  of  learning,  they  contrive  to  appropriate,  with 
surprising  facility,  the  wisdom  born  of  the  passing  moment. 
No  striking  trait  of  character  —  no  remarkable  effect  in  nature 
—  none  of  the  phenomena  of  social  existence,  escape  them. 
Like  Hogarth,  they  are  constantly  enriching  themselves  with 
sketches  from  life  ;  and  as  he  drew  street-wonders  upon  bis 
thumb-nail,  they  note  and  remember,  and  afterwards  elaboiatc 
and  digest  whatever  of  interest  experience  affords.  Goldsmith 
was  a  tvue  specimen  of  this  class.  He  vindicated,  indeed,  his 
claim  to  the  title  of  scholar,  by  research  and  study ;  but  the 
field  most  congenial  to  his  taste,  was  the  broad  universe  of  na* 


xiv 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 


tore  and  man.  It  was  his  love  of  observation  which  gave  zest 
to  the  roving  life  he  began  so  early  to  indulge.  His  boyhood 
was  passed  in  a  constant  succession  of  friendly  -visits.  He  was 
ever  migrating  from  the  house  of  one  kinsman  or  friend  to  that 
of  another;  and  on  these  oscasions,  as  well  as  when  at  home, 
he  was  sden'Jy  but  faithfully  observing.  The  result  is  easily 
traced  in  his  writings.  Few  authors,  indeed,  are  so  highly  in¬ 
debted  to  personal  observation  for  their  materials.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  original  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  was  his  own 
father.  Therein  has  he  embodied  in  a  charming  manner  his 
early  recollections  of  his  parent,  and  the  picture  is  rendered 
still  more  complete  in  his  papers  on  the  “  Man  in  Black.”  The 
inimitable  description,  too,  of  the  “  Village  Schoolmaster,”  is 
drawn  from  the  poet’s  early  teacher;  and  the  veteran  who 
“  shouldered  his  crutch  and  told  how  fields  were  won,”  had 
often  shared  the  hospitality  of  his  father’s  roof.  The  leading 
incident  in  “  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,”  was  his  own  adventure , 
and,  there  is  little  question,  that,  in  the  quaint  tastes  of  Mr 
Burchell,  he  aimed  to  exhibit  many  of  his  peculiar  traits.  But 
it  is  not  alone  in  the  leading  characters  of  his  novel,  plays  and 
poems,  that  we  discover  Goldsmith’s  observing  power.  It  is 
equally  discernible  throughout  his  essays  and  desultory  papers. 
Most  of  his  illustrations  are  borrowed  from  personal  experience, 
and  his  opinions  are  generally  founded  upon  experiment.  His 
talent  for  fresh  and  vivid  delineation,  is  ever  most  prominently 
displayed  when  he  is  describing  what  he  actually  witnessed,  01 
drawing  from  the  rich  fund  of  his  early  impressions  or  subse¬ 
quent  adventures.  No  appeal  to  humor,  curiosity,  or  imagina¬ 
tion,  was  unheeded;  and  it  is  the  blended  pictures  he  contrived 
to  combine  from  these  cherished  associations,  that  impart  sc 
lively  an  interest  to  his  pages.  One  moment  we  find  him 


GOLDSMITH. 


noting,  with  philosophic  sympathy,  the  pastimes  of  a  foreign 
peasantry;  and  another,  studying  the  operations  of  a  spider  at 
Ilia  garret  window,  — now  busy  in  nomenclating  the  peculiar] 
tics  of  the  Dutch,  and  anon,  alluding  to  the  exhibition  of 
Cherokee  Indians.  The  natural  effect  of  this  thirst  for  ex¬ 
perimental  knowledge,  was  to  beget  a  love  for  foreign  travel 
Accordingly,  we  find  that  Goldsmith,  after  exhausting  the  nar¬ 
row  circle  which  his  limited  means  could  compass  at  home 
projected  a  continental  tour,  and  long  cherished  the  hope  of  visit 
ing  the  East.  Indeed,  we  could  scarcely  have  a  stronger  proof 
of  his  enthusiasm,  than  the  long  journey  he  undertook  and  ac 
tuaily  accomplished  on  foot.  The  remembrance  of  his  romantic 
wanderings  over  Holland,  France,  Germany,  and  Italy,  imparts 
a  singular  interest  to  his  writings.  It  was,  indeed,  worthy  of 
a  true  poet  that,  enamored  of  nature  and  delighting  in  the  ob 
servation  of  his  species,  he  should  thus  manfully'  go  forth,  with 
no  companion  but  his  flute,  and  wander  over  these  fair  lands 
hallowed  by  past  associations  and  existent  beauty.  A  rich  and 
happy  era,  despite  its  moments  of  discomfort,  to  such  a  spirit, 
was  that  year  of  solitary  pilgrimage.  Happy  and  proud  must 
have  been  the  imaginative  pedestrian,  as  he  reposed  his  weary 
frame  in  the  peasant’s  cottage  “  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  ;  ’ 
and  happier  still  when  he  stood  amid  the  green  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  and  looked  around  upon  her  snow-capt  hills,  hailed 
the  old  towers  of  Verona,  or  entered  the  gate  ot  I  lorence 
the  long-anticipated  goals  to  which  his  weary  footsteps  had  sc 
patiently  tended.  If  anything  could  enhance  the  pleasure  of 
musing  amid  these  scenes  of  poetic  interest,  it  must  have  bee]] 
the  consciousness  of  having  reached  them  by  so  gradual  and 
belf-denying  a  progress.  There  is,  in  truth,  no  more  charac¬ 
teristic  portion  of  Goldsmith’s  biography,  than  that  w  me! 


XVI 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 


records  this  remarkable  tour ;  and  there  are  fe  w  more  striking 
instances  of  the  available  worth  of  talent.  Unlike  the  bards 
of  old,  he  won  not  his  way  to  shelter  and  hospitality  by  appeal¬ 
ing  to  national  feeling ;  for  the  lands  through  which  he  roamed 
were  not  his  own,  and  the  lay  of  the  last  minstrel  had  long 
since  died  away  in  oblivion.  But  he  gained  the  ready  kind- 
ness  of  the  peasantry  by  playing  the  flute,  as  they  danced  in 
the  intervals  of  toil ;  and  won  the  favor  of  the  learned  by  suc¬ 
cessful  disputation  at  the  convents  and  universities  —  a  method 
of  rewarding  talent  which  was  extensively  practised  in  Europe 
at  that  period.  Thus,  solely  befriended  by  his  wits,  the  roving 
poet  rambled  over  the  continent,  and,  notwithstanding  the  vi¬ 
cissitudes  incident  to  so  precarious  a  mode  of  seeing  the  world, 
lo  a  mind  like  his,  there  was  ample  compensation  in  the  supe¬ 
rior  opportunities  for  observation  thus  afforded.  He  mingled 
frankly  with  the  people,  and  saw  things  as  they  were.  The 
scenery  which  environed  him  flitted  not  before  his  senses,  like 
the  shifting  scenes  of  a  panorama,  but  became  familiar  to  his 
eye  under  the  changing  aspects  of  time  and  season.  Manners 
and  customs  he  quietly  studied,  with  the  advantage  of  sufficient 
opportunity  to  institute  just  comparisons  and  draw  fair  infer 
ences.  In  short,  Goldsmith  was  no  tyro  in  the  philosophy  of 
travel ;  and,  although  the  course  he  pursued  was  dictated  by 
necessity,  its  superior  results  are  abundantly  evidenced  through¬ 
out  his  works.  We  have,  indeed,  no  formal  narrative  of  his 
journeyings  ;  but  what  is  better,  there  is  scarcely  a  page  throwD 
off,  to  supply  the  pressing  wants  of  the  moment,  which  is  not 
enriched  by  some  pleasing  reminiscence  or  sensible  thought 
garnered  from  the  recollection  and  scenes  of  that  long  pilgrim¬ 
age.  Nor  did  he  fail  to  embody  the  prominent  impressions  of 
so  interesting  an  epoch  of  his  checkered  life,  in  a  more  ec- 


G0LW3MTTH. 


xvb 

dining  and  beautiful  form.  The  poem  of  “The  Traveller,” 
originally  sketched  in  Switzerland,  was  subsequently  revised 
and  extended.  It  was  the  foundation  of  Goldsmith’s  poetical 
fame.  The  subject  evinces  the  taste  of  the  author.  The  un¬ 
pretending  vein  of  enthusiasm  which  runs  through  it,  is  onl} 
equalled  by  the  force  and  simplicity  of  the  style.  The  rapid 
sketches  of  the  several  countries  it  presents,  are  vigorous  and 
pleasing ;  and  the  reflections  interspersed,  abound  with  that 
truly  humane  spirit,  and  that  deep  sympathy  with  the  good, 
the  beautiful,  and  the  true,  which  distinguishes  the  poet.  This 
production  may  be  regarded  as  the  author’s  first  deliberate  at¬ 
tempt  in  the  career  of  genius.  It  went  through  nine  editions 
during  his  life,  and  its  success  contributed,  in  a  great  measure, 
to  encourage  and  sustain  him  in  future  and  less  genial  efforts. 

The  faults  which  are  said  to  have  deformed  the  character 
of  Goldsmith,  belong  essentially  to  the  class  of  foibles  rather 
than  absolute  and  positive  errors.  Recent  biographers  agree 
in  the  opinion,  that  his  alleged  devotion  to  play  has  either 
been  grossly  exaggerated,  or  was  but  a  temporary  mania ;  and 
we  should  infer  from  his  own  allusion  to  the  subject,  that  he  had, 
with  the  flexibility  of  disposition  that  belonged  to  him,  yielded 
only  so  far  to  its  seductions  as  to  learn  from  experience  the 
supreme  folly  of  the  practice.  It  is  at  all  events  certain,  that 
IlLe  means  were  too  restricted,  and  his  time,  while  in  London, 
too  much  occupied,  to  allow  of  his  enacting  the  part  of  a  reg¬ 
ular  and  professed  gamester ;  and  during  the  latter  and  most 
auey  years  of  his  life,  we  have  the  testimony  of  the  members 
of  the  celebrated  club  to  which  he  was  attached,  to  the  tem¬ 
perance  and  industry  of  his  habits.  Another,  and  in  the  eyes* 
of  the  world,  perhaps,  greater  weakness  recorded  of  him,  was 
a  mawkish  vanity’,  sometimes  accompanied  by  jealous}  of 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 


XVI 11 

more  successful  competitors  for  the  honors  of  literature.  Some 
anecdotes,  illustrative  of  this  unamiable  trait,  are  preserved, 
which  would  amuse  us,  were  they  associated  with  less  noble 
endowments  or  a  more  uninteresting  character.  As  it  is,  how 
ever,  not  a  few  of  them  challenge  credulity,  from  their  utter 
want  of  harmony  with  certain  dispositions  which  he  is  uni¬ 
versally  allowed  to  have  possessed.  But  it  is  one  of  the 
greatest  and  most  common  errors  in  judging  of  character,  to 
take  an  isolated  and  partial,  instead  of  a  broad  and  compre¬ 
hensive  view  of  the  various  qualities  which  go  to  form  the 
man,  and  the  peculiar  circumstances  that  have  influenced 
their  development.  Upon  a  candid  retrospect  of  Goldsmith’s 
life,  it  appears  to  us  that  the  display  of  vanity,  which  in  the 
view’  of  many  are  so  demeaning,  may  be  easily  and  satis¬ 
factorily  explained.  Few  men  possess  talent  of  any  kind  un¬ 
consciously.  It  seems  designed  by  the  Creator,  that  the  ver> 
sense  of  capacity  should  urge  genius  to  fulfil  its  mission,  and 
support  its  early  and  lonely  efforts  by  the  earnest  conviction 
of  ultimate  success.  To  beings  thus  endowred,  the  neglect 
and  contumely  of  the  world  —  the  want  ot  sympathy  the 
feeling  of  Disappreciation,  is  often  a  keen  sorrow  felt  pre¬ 
cisely  in  proportion  to  the  susceptibility  of  the  individual,  ami 
expressed  according  as  be  is  ingenuous  and  frank. 

In  the  case  of  Goldsmith,  his  long  and  solitary  struggle 
with  poverty  —  his  years  of  obscure  toil  —  bis  ill-success  in 
every  scheme  for  support,  coupled  as  they  were  with  an  in¬ 
tuitive  and  deep  consciousness  of  mental  power  and  poet.c 
gifts,  were  calculated  to  render  him  painfully  alive  to  the  su- 
perior  consideration  bestowed  upon  less  deserving  but  more 
presumptuous  men,  and  the  unmerited  and  unjust  disregm  d 
to  his  own  claims.  Weak  it  undoubtedly  was,  for  him  to 


\ 


GOLDSMITH. 


six 

vent  so  childishly  to  (Rich  feelings,  but  this  sprung  from  the 
spontaneous  honesty  of  his  nature.  He  felt  as  thousands  have 
felt  under  similar  circumstances,  but,  unlike  the  most  of  men, 
“  he  knew  not  the  art  of  concealment.”  Indeed,  this  free- 
spoken  and  candid  disposition  was  inimical  to  his  success  in 
more  than  one  respect.  He  was  ever  a  careless  talker,  unable 
to  play  the  great  man,  and  instinctively  preferring  the  spon¬ 
taneous  to  the  formal,  and  <l  thinking  aloud”  to  studied  and 
circumspect  speech.  The  “  exquisite  sensibility  to  contempt,” 
too,  which  he  confesses  belonged  to  him,  frequently  induced 
an  appearance  of  conceit,  when  no  undue  share  existed.  The 
truth  is,  the  legitimate  pride  of  talent,  for  want  of  free  and 
natural  scope,  often  exhibited  itself  in  Goldsmith  greatly  to 
his  disadvantage.  The  fault  was  rather  in  his  destiny  than 
himself.  He  ran  away  from  college  with  the  design  of  em¬ 
barking  for  America,  because  he  was  reproved  by  an  unfeel¬ 
ing  tutor  before  a  convivial  party  of  his  friends;  and  descended 
to  a  personal  rencontre  with  a  printer,  who  impudently  de¬ 
livered  Dodsley’s  refusal  that  he  should  undertake  an  irn 
proved  edition  of  Pope.  He  concealed  his  name  when  ne¬ 
cessity  obliged  him  to  apply  for  the  office  of  Usher;  and 
received  visits  and  letters  at  a  fashionable  coffee-house,  rather 
than  expose  the  poorness  of  his  lodgings.  He  joined  the 
crowd  to  hear  his  own  ballads  sung  when  a  student ;  and 
openly  expressed  his  wonder  at  the  stupidity  of  people,  in 
preferring  the  tricks  of  a  mountebank  to  the  society  of  a 
man  like  himself.  While  we  smile  at,  we  cannot  wholly  de¬ 
ride  such  foibles,  and  are  constrained  to  say  of  Goldsmith  a? 
he  said  of  the  Village  Pastor  — 

“  And  e’en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtuo’s  sMo.” 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 


XX 

It  is  not  easy  to  say,  whether  the  improvidence  of  our  poet 
arose  more  from  that  recklessness  of  the  future,  characteristic 
of  the  Irish  temperament,  or  the  singular  confidence  in  des¬ 
tiny  which  is  so  common  a  trait  in  men  of  ideal  tendencies. 
Jt  would  naturally  be  supposed,  that  the  stern  lesson  of  severe 
experience  would  have  eventually  corrected  this  want  of  fore- 
sight.  It  was  but  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth  which  lured 
him  to  forget  amid  the  convivialities  of  a  party,  the  vessel  on 
hoard  which  he  had  taken  passage  and  embarked  his  effects, 
on  his  first  experiment  in  travelling ;  but  later  in  life,  we  find 
him  wandering  out  on  the  first  evening  of  his  arrival  in  Edin¬ 
burgh,  without  noting  the  street  or  number  of  his  lodgings ; 
inviting  a  party  of  strangers  in  a  public  garden  to  take  tea 
with  him,  -without  a  sixpence  in  his  pocket  ;  and  obstinately 
persisting,  during  his  last  illness,  in  taking  a  favorite  medi¬ 
cine,  notwithstanding  it  aggravated  his  disease.  A  life  of 
greater  vicissitude  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  annals 
of  literature.  Butler  and  Otway  were,  indeed,  victims  of  in¬ 
digence,  and  often  perhaps,  found  themselves,  like  our  bard, 
“  in  a  garret  writing  for  bread,  and  expecting  every  moment 
to  be  dunned  for  a  milk-score,”  but  the  biography  of  Gold¬ 
smith  displays  a  greater  variety  of  shifts  resorted  to  for  sub¬ 
sistence.  He  was  successively  an  itinerant  musician,  a  half- 
starved  usher,  a  chemist’s  apprentice,  private  tutor,  law-student, 
practising  physician,  eager  disputant,  hack-writer,  and  even, 
for  a  week  or  two,  one  of  a  company  of  strolling  playSrs.  In 
the  History  of  George  Primrose,  he  is  supposed  to  have  de¬ 
scribed  much  of  his  personal  experience  prior  to  the  period 
when  he  became  a  professed  litterateur.  We  cannot  but 
respect  the  independent  spirit  he  maintained  through  all  these 


s 


GOLDSMITH. 


xx; 


ruggles  with  adverse  fortune.  Notwithstanding  his  poverty 
the  attempt  to  chain  his  talents  to  the  service  of  a  political 
faction  by  mercenary  motives  was  indignantly  spurned,  and 
when  his  good  genius  proved  triumphant,  he  preferred  to  in¬ 
scribe  its  first  acknowledged  offspring  to  his  brother,  than, 
according  to  the  servile  habits  of  the  day,  dedicate  it  tc  any 
aristocratic  patron,  “  that  thrift  might  follow  fawning.”  With 
all  his  incapacity  for  assuming  dignity,  Goldsmith  never  r  M?ma 
to  have  forgotten  the  self-respect  becoming  one  of  nature’s 
nobility. 

The  high  degree  of  excellence  attained  by  Goklsn  th  in 
such  various  and  distinct  species  of  literary  effort,  is  v-orthy 
of  remark.  As  an  essayist  he  has  contributed  some  *-f  the 
most  pure  and  graceful  specimens  of  English  prose  discover¬ 
able  in  the  whole  range  of  literature.  His  best  comedo  con¬ 
tinues  to  maintain  much  of  its  original  popularity,  not  with¬ 
standing  the  revolutions  which  public  taste  has  undergone 
since  it  was  first  produced;  and  “  The  Hermit”  is  stil1  an 
acknowledged  model  in  ballad-writing.  If  from  his  more 
finished  works,  we  turn  to  those  which  were  thrown  off  under 
the  pressing  exigencies  of  his  life,  it  is  astonishing  what  a 
contrast  of  subjects  employed  his  pen.  During  his  college 
days,  he  was  constantly  writing  ballads  on  popular  evente, 
which  he  disposed  of  at  five  shillings  each,  and  subsequently, 
after  his  literary  career  had  fairly  commenced,  we  find  hin 
eedulpusly  occupied  in  preparing  prefaces,  historical  compile 
tions,  translations,  and  reviews  for  the  booksellers  ;  one  dyv 
throwing  off  a  pamphlet  on  the  Cock-lane  Ghost,  and  tf  % 
next  inditing  Biographical  Sketches  of  Beau  Nash ;  at  one 
moment,  busy  upon  a  festive  song,  and  at  another  deep  in 
composing  the  words  of  an  Oratorio.  It  is  curious,  with 


XXII 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY- 


intense  sentiment  and  finished  pictures  of  fashionable,  life 
with  which  the  fictions  ot  our  day  abound,  fresh  in  the  mem¬ 
ory,  to  open  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  We  seem  to  be  read 
ing  the  memoirs  of  an  earlier  era,  instead  of  a  different  sphere 
of  life.  There  are  no  wild  and  improbable  incidents,  no 
startling  views,  and  with  the  exception  of  Burchell’s  incogni¬ 
to,  no  attempt  to  excite  interest  through  the  attraction  of 
mystery.  And  yet,  few  novels  have  enjoyed  such  extensive 
and  permanent  favor.  It  is  yet  the  standard  work  for  intro¬ 
ducing  students  on  the  continent  to  a  knowledge  of  our 
language,  and  although  popular  taste  at  present  demands  quite 
a  different  style  of  entertainment,  yet  Goldsmith’s  novel  is 
often  reverted  to  with  delight,  from  the  vivid  contrast  it  pre¬ 
sents  to  the  reigning  school  ^  while  the  attractive  picture  it 
affords  of  rural  life  and  humble  virtue,  will  ever  render  it 

intrinsically  dear  and  valuable. 

But  the  “  Deserted  Village  ”  is,  of  all  Goldsmith’s  produc¬ 
tions,  unquestionably  the  favorite.  It  carries  back  the  mind 
to  the  early  seasons  of  life,  and  re-asserts  the  power  of  un¬ 
sophisticated  tastes.  Hence,  while  other  poems  grow  stele, 
this  preserves  its  charm.  Dear  to  the  heart  and  sacred  to 
the  imagination,  are  those  sweet  delineations  of  unperverted 
existence.  There  is  true  pathos  in  that  tender  lament  over 
the  superseded  sports  and  ruined  haunts  of  rustic  enjoyment, 
which  never  fails  to  find  a  response  in  every  feeling  breast 
It  is  an  elaborate  and  touching  epitaph,  written  in  the  ceme¬ 
tery  of  the  world,  over  what  is  dear  to  all  humanity.  There 
b  a  truth  in  tbe  eloquent  defence  of  agricultural  pursuits  and 
natural  pastimes,  that  steals  like  a  well-remembered  strain 
over  the  heart  immersed  in  the  toil  and  crowds  of  cities. 
There  is  an  unborn  beauty  in  the  similes  of  the  bird  and  her 


GOLDSMITH. 


XXII] 


l(  unfledged  offspring,"  the  hare  that  “  pants  to  the  place  from 
whence  at  first  he  flew,”  and  the  “  tall  cliff  ti  nt  lifts  its  awful 
form,”  which,  despite  their  familiarity,  retain  their  power  tc 
delight.  And  no  clear  and  susceptible  mind  can  ever  lose 
its  interest  in  the  unforced,  unexaggerated  and  heart-stirring 
numbers,  which  animate  with  pleasure  the  pulses  of  youth, 
gratify  the  mature  taste  of  manhood,  and  fall  with  soothing 
sweetness  upon  the  ear  of  age. 

We  are  not  surprised  at  the  exclamation  of  a  young  lady 
who  had  been  accustomed  to  say,  that  our  poet  was  the  home¬ 
liest  of  men,  after  reading  the  “  Deserted  Village  ”  —  “I  shall 
never  more  think  Dr.  Goldsmith  ugly  1  ”  This  poem  passed 
through  five  editions  in  as  many  months,  and  from  its  domes¬ 
tic  character  became  immediately  popular  throughout  England 
Its  melodious  versification  is  doubtless,  in  a  measure,  to  be 
ascribed  to  its  author’s  musical  taste,  and  the  fascinating  ease 
of  its  flow  is  the  result  of  long  study  and  careful  revision. 
Nothing  is  more  deceitful  than  the  apparent  facility  observa¬ 
ble  in  poetry.  No  poet  exhibits  more  of  this  characteristic 
than  Ariosto,  and  yet  his  manuscripts  are  filled  with  erasures 
and  repetitions.  Few  things  appear  more  negligently  grace¬ 
ful  than  the  well-arranged  drapery  of  a  statue,  yet  how  many 
experiments  must  the  artist  try  before  the  desired  effect  is 
produced.  So  thoroughly  did  the  author  rerise  the  “  Desert¬ 
ed  Village/  that  not  a  single  original  line  remained.  The 
clearness  and  warmth  of  bis  style  is,  to  my  mind,  as  indica¬ 
tive  of  Goldsmith’s  truth,  as  the  candor  of  his  character  or 
the  sincerity  of  his  sentiments.  It  has  been  said  of  Pitt  s 
elocution,  that  it  had  the  effect  of  impressing  one  with  the 
idea  that  tho  man  was  greater  than  the  orator.  A  similar 


KX1V 


INTRODUCTORY  itSSAY. 


influence  it  seems  to  me  is  produced  by  the  harmonious  ver 
sification  and  elegant  diction  of  Goldsmith. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  by  an  analysis,  however  critical,  cf  the 
intellectual  distinctions  of  any  author,  that  we  can  arrive  at 
a  complete  view  of  his  genius.  It  is  to  the  feelings  that  we 
must  look  for  that  earnestness  which  gives  vigor  to  mental 
efforts,  and  imparts  to  them  their  peculiar  tone  and  coloring. 
And  it  will  generally  be  found  that  what  is  really  and  per¬ 
manently  attractive  in  the  works  of  genius,  independent  of 
mere  diction,  is  to  be  traced  rather  to  the  heart  than  the  head. 
We  may  admire  the  original  conception,  the  lofty  imagery  or 
winning  style  of  a  popular  author,  but  what  touches  us  most 
deeply  is  the  sentiment  of  which  these  are  the  vehicles.  The 
fertile  invention  of  Petrarch,  in  displaying  under  such  a 
variety  of  disguises  the  same  favorite  subject,  is  not  so 
moving  as  the  unalterable  devotion  which  inspires  his  fancy 
and  quickens  his  muse.  The  popularity  of  Mrs.  Ilemans  is 
more  owing  to  the  delicate  and  deep  enthusiasm  than  to  the 
elegance  of  her  poetry,  and  Charles  Lamb  is  not  less  attrac¬ 
tive  for  his  kindly  affections  than  for  his  quaint  humor.  Not 
a  little  of  the  peculiar  charm  of  Goldsmith,  is  attributable  to 
the  excellence  of  his  heart.  Mere  talent  would  scarcely  have 
sufficed  to  interpret  and  display  so  enchantingly  the  humble 
characters  and  scenes  to  which  his  most  brilliant  efforts  were 
devoted.  It  was  his  sincere  and  ready  sympathy  with  man, 
Hs  sensibility  to  suffering  in  every  form,  his  strong  social  sen 
tirnent  and  his  amiable  interest  in  all  around,  which  brighten¬ 
ed  to  his  mind’s  eye,  what  to  the  less  susceptible  is  unheeded 
and  obscure.  Naturally  endowed  with  free  and  keen  sensi¬ 
bilities,  Iris  own  experience  of  privation  prevented  them  from 


GOLDSMITH. 


SLAV 


indurating  through  age  or  prosperity.  He  cherished  through¬ 
out  his  life  an  earnest  faith  in  the  better  feelings  of  our 
nature.  He  realized  the  universal  beauty  and  power  of  Love 
and  neither  the  solitary  pursuits  of  literature,  the  elation  of 
success,  nor  the  blandishments  of  pleasure  or  society,  ever 
banished  from  his  bosom  the  generous  and  kindly  sentiment3 
which  adorned  his  character.  He  was  not  the  mere  creature 
of  attainment,  the  reserved  scholar  or  abstracted  dreamer. 
Pride  of  intellect  usurped  not  his  heart.  Pedantry  congeal¬ 
ed  not  the  fountains  of  feeling.  He  rejoiced  in  the  exercise 
of  all  those  tender  and  noble  sentiments  which  are  so  much 
more  honorable  to  man  than  the  highest  triumphs  of  mind. 
And  it  is  these  which  make  us  love  the  man  not  less  than 
admire  the  author.  Goldsmith’s  early  sympathy  with  the 
sufferings  of  the  peasantry,  is  eloquently  expressed  in  both 
his  poems  and  frequently  in  his  prose  writings.  How  expres¬ 
sive  that  lament  for  the  destruction  of  the  ‘  Ale-House  ’  — 
that  it  would 

‘  No  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart.’ 

There  is  more  true  benevolence  in  the  feeling  which 
prompted  such  a  thought,  than  in  all  the  cold  and  calculating 
philosophy  with  which  so  many  expect  to  elevate  the  lowei 
classes  in  these  days  of  ultra-reform.  When  shall  we  learn 
that  we  must  sympathize  with  those  we  would  improve  ?  At 
college,  we  are  told,  one  bitter  night  Goldsmith  encountered 
a  poor  woman  and  her  infants  shivering  at  the  gate,  and 
having  no  money  to  give  them,  bringing  out  all  his  bed-clothes, 
and  to  keep  himself  from  freezing,  cut  open  his  bed  and  slept 
within  it  When  hard  at  work  earning  a  scanty  pittance  in 
his  garret,  he  spent  every  spare  penny  in  cakes  for  the  clnl- 

c 


Kxvi 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 


iren  of  his  poorer  neighbors,  and  when  he  could  do  nothing 
else,  taught  them  dancing  by  way  of  cheering  their  poverty 
Notwithstanding  his  avowed  antipathy  to  Baretti,  he  visited  and 
relieved  him  in  prison ;  and  when  returning  home  with  the 
100Z.  received  from  his  bookseller  for  the  ‘  Deserted  Village, 
upon  being  told  by  an  acquaintance  he  fell  in  with,  that  it 
was  a  great  price  for  so  little  a  thing,  replied,  *  Perhaps  it  is 
more  than  he  can  afford/  and  returning,  offered  to  refund  a 
part.  To  his  poor  countrymen  he  was  a  constant  benefactor, 
and  while  he  had  a  shilling  was  ready  to  share  it  with  them, 
rio  that  they  familiarly  styled  him  ‘  our  doctor.’  In  Leyden, 
when  on  the  point  of  commencing  his  tour,  he  stripped  him¬ 
self  of  all  his  funds  to  send  a  collection  of  flower-roots  to  an 
uncle  who  was  devoted  to  botany ;  and  on  the  first  occasion 
that  patronage  was  offered  him,  declined  aid  for  himself*,  to 
bespeak  a  vacant  h'ving  for  his  brother.  In  truth,  his  life 
abounds  in  anecdotes  of  a  like  nature.  We  read  one  day  of 
his  pawning  his  watch  for  Pilkington,  another  of  his  bringing 
home  a  poor  foreigner  from  Temple  gardens  to  be  his  amanu¬ 
ensis,  and  again  of  his  leaving  the  card-table  to  relieve  a 
poor  woman,  whose  tones  as  she  chanted  some  ditty  in  pass- 
ing,  came  to  him  above  the  hum  of  gaiety  and  indicated  to  his 
ear  distress.  Though  the  frequent  and  undeserved  subject 
of  literary  abuse,  he  was  never  known  to  write  severely 
against  any  one. 

ilis  talents  were  sacredly  devoted  to  the  cause  of  virtue 
and  humanity.  No  malignant  satire  ever  came  from  his  pen. 
He  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  beautiful  vindications  in  Nature 
of  the  paternity  of  God,  and  expatiate  upon  the  noblest  and 
most  universal  attributes  of  man.  ‘  If  I  were  to  love  you  by 
rule,  be  writes  to  his  brother,  ‘  I  dare  say  I  never  could  do  it 


GOLDSMITH. 


XXV11 


sincerely.’  There  was  in  his  nature,  an  instincti\  e  aversion 
to  the  frigid  ceremonial  and  meaningless  professions  which  so 
coldly  imitate  the  language  of  feeling.  Goldsmith  saw  enough 
of  the  world,  to  disrobe  his  mind  of  that  scepticism  born  of 
custom  which  ‘  makes  dotards  of  us  all.’  He  did  not  wander 
among  foreign  nations,  sit  at  the  cottage  fire-side,  nor  mix  in 
the  thoroughfare  and  gay  saloon,  in  vain.  Travel  liberalized 
liis  views  and  demolished  the  barriers  of  local  prejudice.  Ho 
looked  around  upon  his  kind  with  the  charitable  judgment 
and  interest  born  of  an  observing  mind  and  a  kindly  heart  — 
with  an  infinite  love,  an  infinite  pity.’  He  delighted  in  the  de¬ 
lineation  of  humble  life,  because  he  knew  it  to  be  the  most 
unperverted.  Simple  pleasures  warmed  his  fancy  because 
he  had  learned  their  preeminent  truth.  Childhood  with  its 
innocent  playfulness,  intellectual  character  with  its  tutored 
wisdom,  and  the  uncultivated  but  ‘bold  peasantry,’  interested 
him  alike.  He  could  enjoy  an  hour’s  friendly  chat  with  his 
fellow-lodger  —  the  watchmaker  in  Green  Arbor  Court  —  not 
less  than  a  literary  discussion  with  Dr.  Johnson.  ‘  I  must  own,’ 
he  writes,  ‘  I  should  prefer  the  title  of  the  ancient  philoso¬ 
pher,  namely,  a  Citizen  of  the  World  —  to  that  of  an  English¬ 
man,  a  Frenchman,  an  European,  or  that  of  any  appellation 
whatever.’  And  this  title  he  has  nobly  earned,  by  the  wide 
scope  of  his  sympathies  and  the  beautiful  pictures  of  life  and 
nature  universally  recognized  and  universally  loved,  which 
have  spread  his  name  over  the  world.  Pilgrims  to  the  sap- 
posed  scene  of  the  Deserted  Village  have  long  since  carried 
awav  every  vestige  of  the  hawthorn  at  Lissoy,  but  the  laurek 
of  Goldsmith  will  never  be  garnered  by  the  hand  of  time,  ox 
blighted  by  tlie  frost  of  neglect,  as  long  as  there  are  minds  to 
appreciate,  or  hearts  to  reverence  the  household  lore  of 
English  literature. 


, 


__ 


s  -  1  •  '  ft 


* 


- . —  t 

r 


MEMOIRS 


OF 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  M.B 

BY  DR.  AIKIN. 


It  cannot  be*  said  of  this  ornament  of  British  literature 
-is  has  been  observed  of  most  authors,  that  the  memoirs  of  his 
life  comprise  little  more  than  a  history  of  his  writings.  Gold¬ 
smith's  life  was  full  of  adventure  ;  and  a  due  consideration 
of  his  conduct,  from  the  outset  to  his  death,  will  furnish  many 
useful  lessons  to  those  who  live  after  him. 

Our  Author,  thfe  third  son  of  Mr.  Charles  Goldsmith,  was 
born  at  Elphm,  in  the  county  of  Roscommon,  Ireland,  on  the 
29th  of  November,  1 728.  His  father,  who  had  been  educated 
at  Dublin  College,  was  a  clergyman  of  the  established  church, 
and  had  married  Anne,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Oliver  Jones, 
master  of  the  diocesai  school  of  Elpliin.  Her  mother  a 
brother,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Green,  then  rector  of  Kilkenny  West, 
lent  the  young  couple  the  house  in  which  our  author  was 
born ;  and  at  his  death  Mr.  Green  was  succeeded  in  his  bene¬ 
fice  by  his  clerical  protegee. 

Mr.  Charles  Goldsmith  had  five  sons  and  two  daughters. 

Henry,  the  eldest  son  (to  whom  the  poem  of  ‘  The  Travel¬ 
ler’  is  dedicated),  distinguished  himself  greatly  both  at  school 


atktn’s  memoirs  of 


8  • 

and  at  college ;  but  bis  marriage  at  nineteen  years  of  age 
appears  to  Lave  been  a  bar  to  his  preferment  in  the  church 
and  we  believe  that  he  never  ascended  above  a  curacy. 

The  liberal  education  which  the  father  bestowed  upoD 
Henry  had  deducted  so  much  from  a  narrow  income  that, 
when  Oliver  was  born,  after  an  interval  of  seven  years  from 
the  birth  of  the  former  child,  no  prospect  in  life  appeared  for 
him,  but  a  mechanical  or  mercantile  occupation. 

The  rudiments  of  instruction  he  acquired  from  a  school¬ 
master  in  the  village,  who  had  served  in  Queen  Anne’s  wars 
as  a  quarter-master  in  that  detachment  of  the  army  which 
was  sent  to  Spain.  Being  of  a  communicative  turn,  and  find¬ 
ing  a  ready  hearer  in  young  Oliver,  this  mart  used  frequent  ¬ 
ly  to  entertain  him  with  what  he  called  his  adventures ;  nor 
is  it  -without  probability  supposed,  that  these  laid  the  founda¬ 
tion  of  that  wandering  disposition  which  became  afterwards  sc 
conspicuous  in  bis  pupil. 

At  a  very  early  age  Oliver  began  to  exhibit  indications  of 
genius ;  for,  when  only  seven  or  eight  years  old,  he  would 
often  amuse  his  father  and  mother  with  poetical  attempts, 
which  attracted  much  notice  from  them  and  their  friends 
but  his  infant  mind  does  not  appear  to  have  been  much  elat¬ 
ed  by  their  approbation  ;  for  after  his  verses  bad  been  admir¬ 
ed,  they  were,  without  regret,  committed  by  him  to  the 
fiames. 

Ho  was  now  taken  from  the  tuition  of  the  quondam  soldier, 
to  be  put  under  that  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of 
Elphin  ;  and  was  at  the  same  time  received  into  the  house  of 
his  father’s  brother,  John  Goldsmith,  Esq.,  of  Ballyoughter 
near  that  town. 

Our  author’s  eldest  sister,  Catharine,  (afterwards  married 


OLIVET?  GOLDSMITH. 


0 


to  Daniel  Hot  Ison,  Esq.,  of  Lishoy,  near  Ballymahon,)  relates 
that  one  evening,  when  Oliver  was  about  nine  years  of  age, 
a  company  of  young  people  of  both  sexes  being  assembled  at 
his  uncle’s,  the  boy  was  required  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  a  youth 
undertaking  to  play  to  him  on  the  fiddle.  Being  but  lately 
out  of  the  small-pox,  which  had  much  disfigured  his  counte¬ 
nance,  and  his  bodily  proportions  being  short  and  thick,  the 
young  musician  thought  to  show  his  wit  by  comparing  our  he¬ 
ro  to  iEsop  dancing ;  and  having  harped  a  little  too  long,  as 
the  caperer  thought,  on  this  bright  idea,  the  latter  suddenly 
''topped,  and  said, 

Our  herald  hach  proclaim’d  this  saying, 

‘  See  JZsop  dancing,’ — and  his  Monkey  playing. 

This  instance  of  early  wit,  we  are  told,  decided  his  fortune ; 
for,  from  that  time,  it  was  determined  to  send  him  to  the  uni¬ 
versity  :  and  some  of  liis  relations,  who  were  in  the  church, 
offered  to  contribute  towards  the  expense,  particularly  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Contarine,  rector  of  Kilmore,  near  Carnck-up- 
on-Shannon,  who  had  married  an  aunt  of  Oliver’s.  The  Rev. 
Mr.  Green  also,  whom  we  have  before  mentioned,  liberally 
assisted  in  this  friendly  design. 

To  further  the  purpose  intended,  he  was  now  removed  to 
Athlone,  where  he  continued  about  two  years  under  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Campbell ;  who  being  then  obliged  by  ill-health  to  resign 
the  charge,  Oliver  was  sent  to  the  school  of  the  Rev  Patrick 
Hughes,  at  Edgeworthstown,  in  the  county  of  Longford.* 

*  Wo  are  told,  that  in  his  last  journey  to  this  school,  he  had  an  ad¬ 
venture,  which  is  thought  to  have  suggested  the  plot  of  his  comedy 
of  ‘She  stoops  to  conquer.’— Some  friend  had  given  him  a  guinea; 
and  in  his  way  to  Edgeworthstown,  which  was  about  twenty  miles 


10 


AIRIN' S  MEMOIRS  OF 


Under  this  gentleman  he  was  prepared  for  the  university, 
and  on  the  11th  of  June,  1744,  was  admitted  a  Sizer  of  Trim 
ity  college,  Dublin,*  under  the  tuition  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Wilder, 
one  of  the  Fellows,  who  was  a  man  of  harsh  temper  and  vio¬ 
lent  passions ;  and  Oliver  being  of  a  thoughtless  and  gay  turn, 
it  cannot  be  surprising  that  they  should  soon  be  dissatisfied 
with  each  other. 

Oliver,  it  seems,  had  one  day  imprudently  invited  a  party 
of  both  sexes  to  a  supper  and  ball  in  his  rooms ;  which  com¬ 
ing  to  the  ears  of  his  tutor,  the  latter  entered  the  place  in  the 
midst  of  their  jollity,  abused  the  whole  company,  and  inflicted 
manual  correction  on  Goldsmith  in  their  presence. 

This  mortification  had  such  an  effect  on  the  mind  of  Oliver, 
that  he  resolved  to  seek  his  fortune  in  some  place  where  he 
should  be  unknown  ^accordingly  he  sold  his  books  and  clothes, 
and  quitted  the  university  ;  but  loitered  about  the  streets, 

from  liis  father’s  house,  he  had  amused  himself  the  whole  day  with 
viewing  the  gentlemen's  seats  on  the  road  ;  and  at  nightfall  found 
himself  in  the  small  town  of  Ardagh.  Here  he  inquired  for  the  best 
house  in  the  place,  meaning  the  best  inn;  but  his  informant,  taking 
the  question  in  its  literal  sense,  shewed  him  to  the  house  of  a  private 
gentleman  ;  where,  calling  for  somebody  to  take  his  horse  to  the  sta¬ 
ble,  our  hero  alighted,  and  was  shown  into  the  parlor,  being  suppos¬ 
ed  to  have  come  on  a  visit  to  the  master,  whom  he  found  sitting  by 
the  lire.  This  gentleman  soon  discovered  Oliver’s  mistake  ;  but  be¬ 
ing  a  man  of  humor,  and  learning  from  him  the  name  of  his  father, 
(whom  he  knew),  he  favored  the  deception.  Oliver  ordered  a  good 
supper,  and  invited  his  landlord  and  landlady,  with  their  daughters, 
to  partake  of  it ;  he  treated  them  with  a  bottle  or  two  of  wine,  and 
at  going  to  bed,  ordered  a  hot  cake  to  be  prepared  for  his  breakfast : 
nor  was  it  till  he  was  about  to  depart,  and  called  for  his  bill,  that  he 
discovered  his  mistake. 

*  The  celebrated  Edmund  Burke  was  at  the  same  time  a  collegian 
here. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


11 


considering  of  a  destination,  till  his  money  was  exhausted 
With  a  solitary  shilling  in  his  pocket  he  at  last  left  Dublin 
by  abstinence  he  made  this  sum  last  him  three  days,  and  (hen 
was  obliged  to  part,  by  degrees,  with  the  clothes  off  his  back : 
in  short,  to  such  an  extremity  was  he  reduced,  as  to  find  a 
handful  of  gray-peas,  given  him  by  a  girl  at  a  wake,  the  most 
comfortable  repast  that  he  had  ever  made. 

After  numberless  adventures  in  this  vagrant  state,  he  found 
his  way  home,  and  was  replaced  under  his  morose  and  mer¬ 
ciless  tutor ;  by  whom  he  was  again  exposed  to  so  many  mor¬ 
tifications,  as  induced  an  habitual  despondence  of  mind,  and 
a  total  carelessness  about  his  studies ;  the  consequence  of 
which  was,  that  he  neither  obtained  a  scholarship,  nor  became 
a  candidate  for  the  premiums.  On  the  25th  of  May,  1747, 
he  received  a  public  admonition,  for  haring  assisted  other  col¬ 
legians  in  a  riot  occasioned  by  a  scholar  having  been  arrested, 
quod  seditioni  favisset ,  et  tumultuantibus  opera  tulisset :  in  this 
case,  however,  he  appears  to  have  fared  better  than  some  of 
his  companions,  who  were  expelled  the  university.  On  the 
15th  of  June  following  he  was  elected  one  of  the  exhibition¬ 
ers  on  the  foundation  of  Erasmus  Smyth ;  but  was  not  admit¬ 
ted  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  till  February,  1749, 
which  was  two  years  after  the  usual  period. 

Oliver’s  father  being  now  dead,  his  uncle  Contarine  under¬ 
took  to  supply  his  place,  and  wished  him  to  prepare  for  holy 
orders.  This  proposal  not  meeting  with  the  young  man’s  in¬ 
clination,  Mr.  Contarine  next  resolved  on  sending  him  to  Lou¬ 
don,  that  he  might  study  law  in  the  temple.  Whilst  at  Dub¬ 
lin,  however,  on  his  way  to  England,  he  fell  in  with  a  sharp¬ 
er,  who  cheated  him  at  play  of  50/.,  which  had  been  provid¬ 
ed  for  his  carriage,  etc.  He  returned,  and  received  his  un- 


12 


aikin's  memgiks  oe 


cle’s  forgiveness :  it  was  now  finally  settled  that  he  should 
make  physic  his  profession  ;  and  he  departed  for  Edinburgh, 
where  he  settled  about  the  latter  end  of  the  year  1752.  Here 
he  attended  the  lectures  of  Hr.  Monroe  and  the  other  medical 
professors ;  but  his  studies  were  by  no  means  regular ;  and 
an  indulgence  in  dissipated  company,  with  a  ready  hand  to 
administer  to  the  necessities  of  whoever  asked  him,  kept  him 
always  poor. 

Having,  however,  gone  through  the  usual  courses  of  phys¬ 
ic  and  anatomy  in  the  Scottish  university,  Goldsmith  was 
about  to  remove  to  Leyden  to  complete  his  studies ;  and  his 
departure  was  hastened  by  a  debt  to  Mr.  Barclay,  a  tailor  in 
Edinburgh,  which  he  had  imprudently  made  his  own  by  be¬ 
coming  security  for  a  fellow  student  who,  either  from  want  of 
principle  or  of  means,  had  failed  to  pay  it :  for  this  debt  he 
was  arrested  ;  but  was  released  by  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Siernh 
and  Mr.  Laughlin  Maclaine,  whose  friendship  he  had  acquir¬ 
ed  at  the  college. 

He  now  embarked  for  Bourdeaux,  on  board  a  Scotch  ves¬ 
sel  called  the  St.  Andrew’s,  Capt  John  Wall,  master.  The 
ship  made  a  tolerable  appearance  ;  and,  as  another  induce¬ 
ment  to  our  hero,  he  was  informed  that  six  agreeable  passen¬ 
gers  were  to  be  his  company.  They  had  been  but  two  days 
at  sea,  however,  when  a  storm  drove  them  into  Newcastle-up¬ 
on-Tyne,  and  the  passengers  went  ashore  to  refresh  after  the 
fatigue  of  their  voyage.  ‘  Seven  men  and  I,  (says  Goldsmith) 
were  on  shore  the  following  evening  ;  but  as  we  were  all  very 
merry,  the  room  door  burst  open,  and  there  entered  a  sergeant 
and  twelve  grenadiers,  with  their  bayonets  screwed,  who  put 
us  all  under  the  King’s  arrest.  It  seems,  my  company  were 
Scotchmen  in  the  Erench  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITB- 


18 


to  enlist  soldiers  for  Louis  XV  I  endeavored  all  I  could  to 
prove  my  innocence  ;  however,  I  remained  in  prison  with  the 
rest  a  fortnight,  and  with  difficult}-  got  off  even  then.  But 
hear  how  Providence  interposed  in  my  favor  :  the  ship,  which 
had  set  sail  for  Bourdeaux  before  I  got  from  prison,  was 
wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and  every  one  of  the 
crew  drowned/— Fortunately,  there  was  a  ship  now  ready  at 
Newcastle,  for  Holland,  on  board  of  which  he  embarked,  and 
in  nine  days  reached  Rotterdam ;  whence  he  travelled  by 
land  to  Leyden. 

Here  he  resided  about  a  year,  studying  anatomy  under 
Albinus,  and  chemistry  under  Gambius ;  but  here,  as  former¬ 
ly,  his  little  property  was  destroyed  by  play  and  dissipation  ; 
and  he  is  actually  believed  to  have  set  out  on  his  travels  with 
only  one  clean  shirt,  and  not  a  guilder  in  his  purse,  trusting 
wholly  to  Providence  for  a  subsistence. 

It  is  generally  understood,  that  in  the  history  of  his  Philo¬ 
sophic  Vagabond,  (Vicar  of  Wakefield,  chap,  xx.)  he  has  re¬ 
lated  many  of  his  own  adventures  ;  and  that  when  on  his  pe¬ 
destrian  tour  through  Flanders  and  France,  as  he  had  some 
knowledge  of  music,  he  turned  what  had  formerly  been  his 
amusement  into  a  present  means  of  subsistence.  i  I  passed, 
(says  he)  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among 
such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very  merry  ; 
for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their  wants. 
Whenever  I  approached  a  peasant’s  house  towards  nightfall, 
I  played  on  my  German  flute  one  of  my  most  merry  tunes, 
and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence  for 
the  next  day.  I  once  or  twice  attempted  to  play  for  people 
of  fashion;  but  they  always  thought  my  performance  odious, 
and  never  rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This  was  to  me 

2 


14 


aikin’s  memoirs  of 


the  more  extraordinary ;  as  whenever  I  used  in  better  days 
to  play  for  company,  when  playing  was  my  amusement,  my 
music  never  failed  to  throw  them  into  raptures,  and  the  ladies 
especially ;  but  as  it  was  now  my  only  means,  it  was  received 
with  contempt :  a  proof  how  ready  the  world  is  to  underrate 
those  talents  by  which  a  man  is  supported  1  *  At  the  differ¬ 
ent  monasteries  in  his  tour,  especially  those  of  his  own  na¬ 
tion,  his  learning  generally  procured  him  temporary  enter¬ 
tainment  ;  and  thus  he  made  his  way  to  Switzerland,  in  which 
country  he  first  cultivated  his  poetical  talents  with  any  par¬ 
ticular  effect ;  for  here  we  find  he  wrote  about  two  hundred 
lines  of  his  ‘  Traveller/ 

The  story  which  has  commonly  been  told,  of  his  having 
acted  as  travelling  tutor  to  a  young  miser,  is  now  thought  to 
have  been  too  hastily  adopted  from  the  aforesaid  History  of  a 
Philosophic  Vagabond,  and  never  to  have  been  the  real  situ¬ 
ation  of  the  author  of  that  history.  From  Switzerland,  Gold¬ 
smith  proceeded  to  Padua,  where  he  stayed  six  months,  and 
is  by  some  supposed  to  have  taken  there  his  degree  of  Bache¬ 
lor  of  Physic ;  though  others  are  of  opinion,  that  if  ever  he 
really  took  any  medical  degree  abroad,  it  was  at  Louvain  * 

After  visiting  all  the  northern  part  of  Italy,  he  travelled, 
still  on  foot,  through  France  ;  and,  embarking  at  Calais,  land¬ 
ed  at  Dover  in  the  summer  of  1756,  unknown,  as  he  suppo^. 
ed,  to  a  single  individual,  and  with  not  a  guinea  in  his  pock¬ 
et. 

l  lis  first  endeavors  were,  to  procure  employment  as  an  ush¬ 
er  in  some  school ;  but  the  want  of  a  recommendation  as  to 
character  and  ability  rendered  his  efforts  for  some  time  fruit- 

*  In  1769,  it  is  certain,  he  was  admitted  M.  B.  at  Oxford,  which 
university  he  visited  in  February,  in  company  with  Dr  Johnson. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


15 


less  ;  and  liow  lie  subsisted  is  not  easy  to  guess.  At  length, 
however,  it  appears  he  procured  an  usher’s  place  ;  but  in 
what  part  the  school  was  situated,  or  how  long  he  continued 
in  it,  we  do  not  learn  ;  though  we  may  form  some  idea  of 
the  uncongeniality  of  the  place  to  his  mind,  from  the  follow¬ 
ing  passage  in  the  Philosophic  V agabond  :  ‘  I  have  been  an 
usher  at  a  boarding-school  ;  and  may  I  die  but  I  would  rath¬ 
er  be  an  under-turnkey  in  Newgate.  I  was  up  early  and 
late  ;  I  was  brow-beat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face 
by  my  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never  per¬ 
mitted  to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.’ 

When  in  a  fit  of  disgust  he  had  quitted  this  academy,  his 
pecuniary  necessities  soon  became  pressing;  to  relieve  which 
he  applied  to  several  apothecaries  and  chemists  for  employ¬ 
ment  as  a  journeyman  ;  but  here  liis  threadbare  appearance, 
awkward  manners,  and  the  want  of  a  recommendation,  ope¬ 
rated  sorely  to  his  prejudice  ;*  till  at  last  a  chemist  near  Fish- 
street-hill,  probably  moved  by  compassion,  gave  him  employ¬ 
ment  in  his  laboratory,  where  he  continued  till  he  learned 
that  his  old  friend  Dr.  Sleigh,  of  Edinburgh,  was  in  town:  on 
him  (who  had,  as  we  have  seen,  formerly  relieved  him  from 
embarrassment,)  Goldsmith  waited,  was  kindly  received,  and 
invited  to  share  his  purse  during  his  continuance  in  London. 

This  timely  assistance  enabled  our  author  to  commence 
medical  practice  at  Bankside,  in  Southwark,  whence  he  af  ter- 

*In  a  letter,  dated  Dec.  1757,  he  writes  thus  ‘At  London,  you 
may  easily  imagine  what  difficulties  I  had  to  encounter;  without* 
friends,  recommendations,  money  or  impudence  ;  and  that  in  a  coun¬ 
try  where  being  born  an  Irishman  was  sufficient  to  keep  me  unem¬ 
ployed.  Many  in  such  circumstances  would  have  had  recourse  to 
the  friar’s  cord  or  the  suicide’s  halter.  But  with  all  my  follies  I  had 
principle  to  resist  the  one,  and  resolution  to  combat  the  other.’ 


16 


AIKIN’S  MEMOIRS  OP 


ward  removed  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Temple ;  his  sue 
cess  as  a  physician  is  not  known,  but  his  income  was  very 
small ;  for,  as  he  used  to  say,  he  got  very  few  fees,  though 
he  had  abundance  of  patients.  Some  addition,  however,  he 
now  began  to  derive  from  the  efforts  of  his  pen  ;  and  it  ap¬ 
pears  that  he  was  for  awhile  with  the  celebrated  Samuel  Rich- 
ardson  as  corrector  of  the  press. 

About  this  time  he  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  one  of 
Ihe  young  physicians  whom  he  had  known  at  Edinburgh. 
This  was  a  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  Milner,  a  dissenting 
minister,  who  kept  a  classical  school  of  eminence  atPeckham, 
in  Surrey.  Mr.  Milner,  observing  Goldsmith’s  uncertain 
mode  of  living,  invited  him  to  take  the  charge  of  his  father’s 
school,  the  Doctor  being  then  confined  by  illness  :  to  this  he 
consented  ;  and  Dr.  Milner,  in  return,  promised  to  exert  his 
interest  with  the  India  Directors  to  procure  for  him  some  med¬ 
ical  establishment  in  the  Company’s  service.  This  promise 
he  faithfully  performed,  and  Goldsmith  was  actually  appoint¬ 
ed  physician  to  one  of  the  factories  in  India  in  1758.  It  ap¬ 
pears,  however,  that  our  author  never  availed  himself  of  tliis 
post,*  but  continued  in  Dr.  Milner’s  academy ;  and  in  this 
very  year  sold  to  Mr.  Edward  Dilly,  for  twenty  guineas,  ‘  The 
Memoirs  of  a  Protestant  condemned  to  the  Galleys  of  France 
for  his  Religion.  Written  by  Himself.  Translated  from  the 
Original,  just  published  at  the  Hague,  by  James  Willingtcn. 

2  vols.  12mo. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  1758,  Goldsmith  happened  tc 


*  Though  it  is  certain  that  in  contemplation  of  going  to  India,  he 
circulated  Proposals  to  print  by  Subscription  ‘  An  essay  on  the  Pres¬ 
ent  State  of  Taste  and  Literature  in  Europe,’  as  a  means  of  defray- 
ing  the  expenses  of  his  fitting  out  for  the  voyage. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


17 


dine  at  Dr  Milner's  table  with  Mr.  Ralph  Griffiths,  the  pro- 
prietor  of  The  Monthly  Review,  who  invited  him  to  write  ar¬ 
ticles  of  criticism  for  that  respectable  publication,  on  the  terms 
of  a  liberal  salary,  besides  board  and  lodging.  By  a  written 
agreement  this  engagement  was  to  last  for  a  year ;  but  at  the 
end  of  seven  or  eight  months  it  was  dissolved  by  mutual  con¬ 
sent,  and  Goldsmith  took  a  miserable  apartment  in  Green- Ar¬ 
bor-court,  Little  Old  Bailey.*  In  this  wretched  hovel  onr 
author  completed  his  ‘  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Po¬ 
lite  Literature  in  Europe/  which  was  published  in  1759,  by 
Dodsley,  and  was  well  received.  In  October  of  the  same 
year  he  began  ‘  The  Bee/  a  weekly  publication,  which  termi¬ 
nated  at  the  eighth  number.  About  this  time,  also,  he  con¬ 
tributed  some  articles  to  The  Critical  Review,  one  of  which 
(we  believe  a  review  of  ‘  Ovid’s  Epistles  translated  into  Eng¬ 
lish  verse,  by  a  Mr.  Barrett,  Master  of  the  Grammar  School 
at  Ashford,  in  Kent,)  introduced  him  to  the  acquaintance  of 
Dr.  Smollett,  who  was  then  editor  of  The  British  Magazine  ; 
and  for  that  work  Goldsmith  wrote  most  of  those  ‘  Essays/ 
which  were  afterwards  collected  and  published  in  a  separate 
volume.  By  Dr.  Smollett  too  he  was  recommended  to  some 
respectable  booksellers,  particularly  to  Mr.  John  Newbcry, 
who  well  deserved  the  eulomum  bestowed  by  Warburton  on 
the  trade  in  general,  as  one  of  ‘  the  best  judges  and  most  lib¬ 
eral  rewarders  of  literary  merit.’  By  Mr.  Newbery,  Gold¬ 
smith  was  engaged  at  a  salary  of  100/.  a-year,  to  write  for 
The  Public  Ledger  a  series  of  periodical  papers.  These  he 
called  ‘  Chinese  Letters  ;  ’  and  they  were  afterwards  collect¬ 
ed  in  two  volumes,  under  the  title  of  ‘  The  Citizen  of  the 

*  An  engraving  of  the  house,  illustrated  by  a  description,  was  giv 
en  in  *  The  European  Magazine/  vol.  xliii-  pp.  7,  8. 

2* 


aikin’s  memoirs  of 


18 

World.’  It  was  soon  after  tills  that  he  commenced  his  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  Dr.  Johnson. 

The  important  engagement  with  Newbcry  for  a  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  encouraged  Goldsmith  to  descend  Break-neck- 
steps,*  and  to  hire  a  decent  apartment  in  Wine-Oflice-court, 
Fleet-street.  Here  he  dropped  the  humble  Mister ,  and  dub¬ 
bed  himself  Doctor  Goldsmith.  Here  also  he  put  the  finish 
in"  hand  to  his  excellent  novel  called  ‘  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,’  but  was,  when  he  had  done,  extremely  embarrassed  in 
his  circumstances,  dunned  by  his  landlady  for  arrears  of  rent, 
and  not  daring  to  stir  abroad  for  fear  of  arrest :  in  fact,  she 
herself  at  length  had  him  arrested ;  he  then  summoned  reso¬ 
lution  to  send  a  message  to  Dr.  Johnson  ;  stating  that  he  was 
in  great  distress,  and  begging  that  he  would  come  to  him  as 
soon  as  possible.  Johnson  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to 
follow  almost  immediately.  When  he  arrived,  he  found  Gold¬ 
smith  in  a  violent  passion  with  the  woman  of  the  house,  but 
consoling  himself  as  well  as  he  could  with  a  bottle  of  Madeira, 
which  he  had  already  purchased  with  part  of  the  guinea. 
Johnson,  corking  the  bottle,  desired  Goldsmith  would  be  calm, 
and  consider  in  what  way  he  could  extricate  himself.  The 
latter  then  produced  liis  novel  as  ready  for  the  press.  The 
Doctor  looked  into  it,  saw  its  merit,  and  went  away  with  it  to 
Mr.  Newbery,  who  gave  him  60Z.  for  it;  with  this  sum  he  r«' 
turned  to  Goldsmith,  who,  with  many  invectives,  paid  Ins 
landlady  her  rent  Newbery,  however,  seems  not  to  have 
been  very  sanguine  in  his  hopes  of  this  novel ;  for  he  kep' 
the  MS.  by  him  near  three  years  unprinted  :  his  ready  pur¬ 
chase  of  it,  probably,  was  in  the  way  of  a  benefaction  to  its 

*  A  steep  flight  of  stairs  (commonly  so  termed)  leading  from  the 
door  of  his  lodging-house  in  Green- Arbor  court  to  Fleet-market 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


19 


distressed  author,  rather  than  under  any  idea  cf  profit  by  the 
publication. 

Early  in  the  year  1763,  Goldsmith  removed  to  lodgings  at 
Canonbury-house,  Islington,  where  he  compiled  several  works 
for  Mr.  Newbery  ;  among  which  were,  ‘  The  Art  of  Poetry,5 
2  vols.  12mo. ;  a  ‘  Life  of  Nash  ;  *  and  a  ‘  History  of  England, 
in  a  Series  of  Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son/  This 
latter  book  was  for  a  long  time  attributed  to  George  Lord 
Lyttleton. 

In  the  following  year  he  took  chambers  on  the  upper  story 
of  the  Library  stair-case  in  the  Inner  Temple,  and  began  to 
live  in  a  genteel  style.  Still,  however,  he  was  little  known, 
except  among  the  booksellers,  till  the  year  1765,  when  he 
produced  his  poem  called  ‘  The  Traveller  ;  or,  A  Prospect 
of  Society/  which  had  obtained  high  commendation  from  Dr. 
Johnson,  who  declared  ‘  that  there  had  not  been  so  fine  a  po¬ 
em  since  the  time  of  Pope  ; 5  yet  such  was  Goldsmith’s  diffi¬ 
dence,  that,  though  he  had  completed  it  some  years  before,  he 
had  not  courage  enough  to  publish,  till  urged  to  it  by  John¬ 
son’s  suggestions.  This  poem  heightened  his  literary  charac¬ 
ter  with  the  booksellers,  and  introduced  him  to  several  per¬ 
sons  of  superior  rank  and  talents,  as  Lord  Nugent  (afterwards 
earl  of  Clare),  Mr.  Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Dr.  Nugent, 
Mr.  Bennet  Langton,  Mr  Topham  Beauclerc,  etc.,  and  he 
was  elected  one  of  the  first  members  of  ‘  The  Literary  Club, 
which  had  been  just  instituted  by  Johnson,  Burke,  and  Sir 
Joshua,  and  met  at  the  Turk’s-head,  Gerard-street,  Soho,  ev¬ 
ery  Friday  evening. 

His  pathetic  ballad  of  ‘  The  Hermit/  which  was  also  pub¬ 
lished  in  1765,  recommended  him  to  the  Countess  (afterwards 
Duchess)  of  Northumberland,  who  was  a  generous  patroness 


20 


AUvIN’S  memoirs  ok 


of  merit.  In  the  following  year  his  ‘  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ’  was 
printed,  and  universally  read  and  admired. 

Ilis  reputation  being  now  fairly  established  as  a  novelist,  a 
poet,  and  a  critic,  Goldsmith  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  dra¬ 
ma,  and  set  about  his  comedy  called  ‘  The  Good-natured  Man.3 
This  he  first  offered  to  Garrick,  who,  after  a  long  fluctuation 
between  doubt  and  encouragement,  at  length  declined  bring¬ 
ing  it  forward  at  Drury-lane  theatre  ;  it  was  therefore  taken 
to  Go  vent-garden,  accepted  by  Mr.  Colman,  and  presented 
for  the  first  time  on  the  29th  of  January,  1768.  It  was  act¬ 
ed  nine  times ;  and  by  the  profits  of  the  author’s  three  third- 
nights,  with  the  sale  of  the  copyright,  a  clear  500 1.  was  pro¬ 
duced. 

V  ith  this,  and  some  money  which  he  had  reserved  out  of 
the  produce  of  a  ‘  Roman  History,’  in  2  vols.  8vo.,  and  other 
woiks,  he  was  enabled  to  descend  from  his  attic  story  in  the 
Inner  Temple,  and  to  purchase  for  400J.,  and  furnish  elegant¬ 
ly,  a  spacious  set  of  chambers  on  the  first  floor,  at  No.  2,  Brick- 
court,  Middle  Temple. 

On  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  Academy,  in  1769,  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  recommended  Goldsmith  to  his  Majesty  for 
the  Honorary  I  rofessorship  of  History,  which  was  graciously 
conferred  on  him.  In  the  following  year  he  produced  that 
highly-finished  poem  called  ‘  The  Deserted  Village.’  Previ¬ 
ous  to  its  publication,  we  are  told,  the  bookseller  (Mr.  Grif- 
un,  ol  Catharine  street,  Strand)  had  given  him  a  note  of  a 
hundred  guineas  for  the  copy.  This  circumstance  Goldsmith 
mentioned  soon  afterwards  to  a  friend,  who  observed  that  it 
was  a  large  sum  for  so  small  a  performance.  ‘  In  truth  ’  re¬ 
plied  Goldsmith,  ‘  I  think  so  too ;  it  is  near  five  shillings  a 
couplet,  which  is  much  more  than  the  honest  man  can  afford. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


21 


and,  indeed,  more  than  any  modern  poetry  is  worth.  I  have 
not  been  easy  since  I  received  it ;  I  will,  therefore,  go  back 
and  return  him  his  note ;  *  which  he  actually  did ;  but  the 
sale  was  so  rapid,  that  the  bookseller  soon  paid  him  the  hun¬ 
dred  guineas  with  proper  acknowledgments  for  the  generosi¬ 
ty  of  his  conduct. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  Deserted  Village,  our 
author  paid  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  Parnell,  in  a  Life 
prefixed  to  a  new  edition  of  his  ‘  Poems  on  several  Occasions.’ 
In  the  year  1771  he  produced  his  ‘  History  of  England,  from 
the  earliest  Times  to  the  Death  of  George  H./  in  4  vols.  8vo.  j 
for  which  Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  the  bookseller,  paid  him  500J. 

The  Earl  of  Lisburne,  one  day  at  a  dinner  of  the  Loyal 
Academicians,  lamented  to  Goldsmith  that  he  should  neglect 
the  muses  to  compile  histories,  and  write  novels,  instead  of 
penning  poetry  with  which  he  was  sure  to  charm  his  readers. 
‘  My  lord/  replied  cur  author,  ‘  in  courting  the  muses  I  should 
starve  ;  but  by  my  other  labors  I  eat,  drink,  wear  good  clothes, 
and  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life.’ 

Goldsmith  had,  besides  his  regular  works,  much  of  the  oth¬ 
er  business  of  an  author  by  profession  ;  such  as  penning  Pref¬ 
aces  and  Introductions  to  the  books  of  other  writers  :  som  e  of 
these  have  been  published  among  his  prose  works  ;  but,  no 
doubt,  many  remain  at  this  day  unknown. 

His  second  dramatic  effort,  being  a  comedy  called  ‘  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  ;  or,  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night/  was  first 
presented  at  Covent-garden  theatre,  March  15,  1773,  and  re¬ 
ceived  with  an  applause  fully  adequate  to  the  author’s  san¬ 
guine  hopes,  and  contrary  to  the  expectations  of  Mr.  Colmam 
who  had  not  consented  to  receive  the  piece  but  at  the  earnest 
and  reiterated  instances  of  many  frionds.  What  was  called 


22 


aikin's  memoirs  op 


sentimental  comedy  had  at  that  time  got  an  unaccountable  hold 
of  the  public  taste  ;  Kelly  was  subserving  this  un-British  pro¬ 
pensity  by  his  ‘  False  Delicacy,’  etc.,  and  Goldsmith’s  piece 
(which  was  designed  by  him  to  bring  back  the  town  to  a  rel¬ 
ish  of  humor)  being  certainly  in  the  opposite  extreme,  and 
hardly  anything  else  than  a  farce  of  live  acts  instead  of  two, 
Colman,  and  his  actors  from  him,  had  predestined  the  play  to 
condemnation  :  when,  therefore,  towards  the  conclusion  of  the 
first  performance,  the  author  expressed  some  apprehension 
lest  one  of  the  jokes  put  into  the  mouth  of  Tony  Lumpkin 
should  not  be  relished  by  the  audience,  the  manager,  who  had 
been  in  fear  through  the  whole  piece,  replied,  ‘  D — n  it,  Doc 
tor,  don’t  be  terrified  at  a  squib  5  why,  we  have  been  sitting 
these  two  hours  on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder.’  Goldsmith’s 
pride  was  so  hurt  at  this  remark,  that  the  friendship  which 
had  till  then  subsisted  between  him  and  Colman,  was  thence¬ 
forth  annihilated. 

The  piece  had  a  great  run,  and  its  author  cleared  by  the 
third-nights,  and  the  sale  of  the  copy,  upwards  of  800/.  Dr. 
Johnson  said  of  it,  ‘  That  he  knew  of  no  comedy  for  many 
years  that  had  so  much  exhilarated  an  audience,  that  had  an¬ 
swered  so  much  the  great  end  of  comedy  —  the  making  an 
audience  merry.’  It  certainly  added  much  to  the  author’s 
reputation,  and  is  still,  with  his  ‘  Good-natured  Man,’  on  the 
list  of  acting  plays ;  but  it  brought  on  him  the  envy  and  ma¬ 
lignity  of  some  of  his  contemporaries ;  and  in  the  London 
Packet  of  Wednesday,  March  24, 1773,  printed  for  T.  Evans, 
in  Paternoster-row,  appeared  the  following  scurrilous  epistle, 
evidently  designed  to  injure  his  third-night  (being  the  ninth 
representation)  : — 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


28 


‘  TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

4  Vous  vous  noyez  en  vanitL 

1  Sir. — The  happy  knack  which  you  have  learnt  of  puffing 
your  own  compositions,  provokes  me  to  come  forth.  You 
have  not  been  the  editor  of  newspapers  and  magazines,  not  tG 
discover  the  trick  of  literary  humbug.  But  the  gauze  is  so 
thin,  that  the  very  foolish  part  of  the  world  see  through  it, 
and  discover  the  Doctor’s  monkey  face  and  cloven  foot  Your 
poetic  vanity  is  as  unpardonable  as  your  personal.  Would 
man  believe  it,  and  will  woman  bear  it,  to  be  told  that  for 
hours  the  great  Goldsmith  will  stand  surveying  his  grotesque 
Oranhotan’s  figure  in  a  pier-glass  ?  Was  but  the  lovely  Ii — k 
as  much  enamored,  you  wrould  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in 
vain.  But  your  vanity  is  preposterous.  How  will  this  same 
bard  of  Bedlam  ring  the  changes  in  praise  of  Goldy  !  But  what 
has  he  to  be  either  proud  or  vain  of  ?  The  11  Traveller  ” 
is  a  flimsy  poem,  built  upon  false  principles ;  principles  diamet¬ 
rically  opposite  to  liberty.  What  is  “  The  Good-natured 
Man,”  but  a  poor,  water-gruel,  dramatic  dose  ?  What  is  44  The 
Deserted  Village,”  but  a  pretty  poem  of  easy  numbers,  with¬ 
out  fancy,  dignity,  genius,  or  fire  ?  And  pray  what  may  bo 
the  last  speaking  pantomime,*  so  praised  by  the  Doctor  him- 
eelf,  but  an  incoherent  piece  of  stuff,  the  figure  of  a  woman 
with  a  fish’s  tail,  without  plot,  incident,  or  intrigue  ?  We  are 
made  to  laugh  at  stale,  dull  jokes,  wherein  we  mistake  pleas¬ 
antry  for  wit,  and  grimace  for  humor  :  wherein  every  scene 
is  unnatural,  and  inconsistent  with  the  rules,  the  laws  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  of  the  drama  ;  viz.  Two  gentlemen  come  to  a  man 
of  fortune’s  house,  eat,  drink,  sleep,  etc.,  and  take  it  for  an 


*  Meaning  ‘  Sho  Stoops  to  Conquer.’ 


24 


AIKIN’S  MEMOHIS  OF 


inn.  The  one  is  intended  as  a  lover  to  the  daughter  ;  he 
talks  with  her  for  some  hours,  and  when  he  sees  her  again  in 
a  different  dress,  he  treats  her  as  a  bar-girl,  and  swears  sho 
squinted.  He  abuses  the  master  of  the  house,  and  threatens 
to  kick  him  out  of  his  own  doors.  The  ’Squire,  whom  we 
are  told  is  to  be  a  fool,  proves  to  be  the  most  sensible  being 
of  the  piece  ;  and  he  makes  out  a  whole  act  by  bidding  his 
mother  lie  close  behind  a  bush,  persuading  her  that  Ins  father, 
her  own  husband,  is  a  liighwayman,  and  that  he  is  come  to 
cut  their  tliroats  ;  and  to  give  his  cousin  an  opportunity  to  go 
off,  he  drives  his  mother  over  hedges,  ditches,  and  through 
ponds.  There  is  not,  sweet,  sucking  Johnson,  a  natural  stroke 
in  the  whole  play,  but  the  young  fellow’s  giving  the  stolen 
jewels  to  the  mother,  supposing  her  to  be  the  landlady.  That 
Mr.  Colman  did  no  justice  to  this  piece,  I  honestly  allow ; 
that  he  told  all  liis  friends  it  would  be  damned,  I  positively 
aver ;  and  from  such  ungenerous  insinuations,  without  a  dra¬ 
matic  merit,  it  rose  to  public  notice ;  and  it  is  now  the  ton  to 
go  to  see  it,  though  I  never  saw  a  person  that  either  liked  it 
or  approved  it,  any  more  than  the  absurd  plot  cf  the  Home's 
tragedy  of  Alonzo.  Mr.  Goldsmith,  correct  your  arrogance, 
reduce  your  vanity,  and  endeavor  to  believe,  as  a  man,  you 
are  oi  the  plainest  sort ;  and  as  an  author,  but  a  mortal  piece 
of  mediocrity.’ 

‘  Brisez  le  miroir  injidele , 

Qui  vous  cache  la  verite. 

‘  Tom  Tickle.* 

By  one  of  those  ‘  d - d  good-natured  friends,’  who  are 

described  by  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  the  newspaper  containing 
the  foregoing  offensive  letter  was  eagerly  brought  to  Goldsmith, 
who  otherwise,  perhaps,  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  it  Oui 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


25 


hero  went  to  the  shop  brimfull  of  ire,  and  finding  Evans  behind 
his  counter,  thus  addressed  him  :  ‘  You  have  published  a  tiling 
in  your  paper  (my  name  is  Goldsmith)  reflecting  upon  a 
young  lady.  As  for  myself,  I  do  not  mind  it’ —  Evans  at 
this  moment  stooped  down,  intending  probably  to  look  for  a 
paper,  that  he  might  see  what  the  enraged  author  meant 
when  Goldsmith,  observing  bis  back  to  present  a  fair  mark 
for  his  cane,  laid  it  on  lustily.  The  bibliopolist,  however,  soon 
defended  himself,  and  a  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  our  author 
got  his  full  share  of  blows.  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  was  sitting  in 
Evans’s  counting-house  (and  who  was  strongly  suspected  to 
have  been  the  -writer  of  the  letter),  now  came  forward,  part¬ 
ed  the  combatants,  and  sent  Goldsmith  home  in  a  coach, 
grievously  bruised. 

This  attack  upon  a  man,  in  his  own  house,  furnished  mat¬ 
ter  of  discussion  for  some  days  to  the  newspapers ;  and  an 
action  at  law  was  threatened  to  be  brought  for  the  assault  • 
but  by  the  interposition  of  friends  the  affair  was  compromis¬ 
ed  ;  and  on  Wednesday,  the  3. 1st  of  March,  Goldsmith  insert¬ 
ed  the  following  Address  in  the  Daily  Advertiser  : — 

‘  TO  TIIE  PUBLIC. 

*  Lest  it  shouhl  be  supposed  that  I  have  been  willing  to 
correct  in  others  an  abuse  of  which  I  have  been  guilty  my- 
felf,  I  beg  leave  to  declare  that  in  all  my  life  I  never  wrote, 
3r  dictated,  a  single  paragraph,  letter,  or  essay,  in  a  newspa¬ 
per,  except  a  few  moral  essays,  under  the  character  of  a  Chi¬ 
nese,  about  ten  years  ago,  in  the  Ledger ;  and  a  letter,  to 
which  I  signed  my  name,  in  the  St.  James  s  Chronicle.  If  the 
liberty  of  the  press,  therefore,  'liaa  been  abused,  I  have  had 
no  hand  in  it 

3 


26 


AIK  IN’S  MEMOIRS  OF 


*  I  have  always  considered  tlie  press  as  the  protector  of  oui 
freedom,  as  a  watchful  guardian,  capable  of  uniting  the  weak 
against  the  encroachments  of  power.  What  concerns  the 
public  most  properly  admits  of  a  public  discussion.  But,  of 
late,  the  press  has  turned  from  defending  public  interest,  to 
making  inroads  upon  private  life  ;  from  combating  the  strong, 
to  overwhelming  the  feeble.  No  condition  is  now  too  obscure 
for  its  abuse,  and  the  protector  is  become  the  tyrant  of  the 
people.  In  this  manner  the  freedom  of  the  press  is  begin¬ 
ning  to  sow  the  seeds  of  its  own  dissolution ;  the  great  must 
oppose  it  from  principle,  and  the  weak  from  fear  ;  till  at  last 
every  rank  of  mankind  shall  be  found  to  give  up  its  benefits, 
content  with  security  from  its  insults. 

‘  How  to  put  a  slop  to  this  licentiousness,  by  which  all  are 
indiscriminately  abused,  and  by  which  vice  consequently  es¬ 
capes  in  the  general  censure,  I  am  unable  to  tell ;  all  I  could 
wish  is,  that,  as  the  law  gives  us  no  protection  against  the  in¬ 
jury,  so  it  should  give  calumniators  no  shelter  after  having 
provoked  correction.  The  insults  which  we  receive  before 
the  public,  by  being  more  open,  are  the  more  distressing.  By 
treating  them  with  silent  contempt  we  do  not  pay  a  sufficient 
deference  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  By  recurring  to  le¬ 
gal  redress,  we  too  often  expose  the  weakness  of  the  law, 
which  only  serves  to  increase  our  mortification  by  failing  to 
relieve  us.  In  short,  every  man  should  singly  consider  him¬ 
self  as  a  guardian  of  the  liberty  of  the  press,  and,  as  far  as  his 
influence  can  extend,  should  endeavor  to  prevent  its  licen¬ 
tiousness  becoming  at  last  the  grave  of  its  freedom. 

Oliver  Goldsmith/ 

“V 

Mr.  Boswell  having  intimated  to  Dr.  Johnson  his  suspicions 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


27 


that  he  was  the  real  writer  of  this  Address,  the  latter  said, 
‘  Sir,  Dr.  Goldsmith  would  no  more  have  asked  me  to  have 
written  such  a  thing  as  that  for  him,  than  he  would  have  ask¬ 
ed  me  to  feed  him  with  a  spoon,  or  to  do  anything  else  that 
denoted  his  imbecility.  I  as  much  believe  that  he  wrote  it* 
^  it  I  had  seen  him  do  it.  Sir,  had  he  shewn  it  to  any  one 
friend,  he  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  publish  it.  He 
has  indeed  done  it  very  well ;  but  it  is  a  foolish  thing  well 
done.  I  suppose  he  has  been  so  much  elated  with  the  success 
oi  his  new  comedy,  that  he  has  thought  everything  that  con¬ 
cerns  him  must  be  of  importance  to  the  public.’ 

About  a  month  after  this,  to  oblige  Mr.  Quick,  the  comme- 
dian,  who  had  very  successfully  exerted  himself  in  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  Tony  Lumpkin,  Goldsmith,  we  believe,  reduced  Sed- 
iey’s  ‘  Grumbler  ’  to  a  farce  ;  and  it  wras  performed  for  Mr. 
Quick’s  benefit  on  the  8th  of  May,  but  was  never  printed : 
indeed,  some  persons  doubt  whether  Goldsmith  did  more  than 
revise  an  alteration  which  had  been  made  by  some  other  per¬ 
son. 

Our  author  now,  oddly  enough,  took  it  into  his  head  to  re¬ 
ject  the  title  of  Doctor  (with  which  he  had  been  self-invest¬ 
ed),  and  to  assume  the  plain  address  of  Mr.  Goldsmith;  but 
whatever  his  motive  to  this  might  be,  he  could  not  effect  it 
with  the  public,  who  to  the  day  of  his  death  called  him  Doc¬ 
tor  and  the  same  title  is  usually  annexed  to  his  name  even 
now,  though  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Physic  was  the  highest 
ever  actually  conferred  upon  him. 

After  having  compiled  a  History  of  Rome,  and  two  Histo¬ 
ries  of  England,  he  undertook,  and  completed  in  1773, ‘A 
History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Nature ,’  in  8  vols.  8vo* 
which  was  printed  in  1774,  and  he  received  for  it  850£. 


28 


aikin’s  memoirs  of 


The  emoluments  which  he  had  derived  from  his  writ.ngs 
for  some  few  years  past  were,  indeed,  very  considerable  ;  but 
were  rendered  useless  in  effect,  by  an  incautious  liberality, 
which  prevented  his  distinguishing  proper  from  improper  ob¬ 
jects  of  his  bounty ;  and  also  by  an  unconquerable  itch  for 
jr lining,  a  pursuit  m  which  his  impatience  of  temper,  and  his 
want  of  skill,  wholly  disqualified  him  for  succeeding. 

His  last  production,  ‘  Retaliation ,’  was  written  for  his  own 
amusement  and  that  of  his  friends  who  were  the  subjects  of 
it.  That  he  did  not  live  to  finish  it,  is  to  be  lamented  ;  for 
it  is  supposed  that  he  would  have  introduced  more  characters. 
What  he  has  left,  however,  is  nearly  perfect  in  its  kind  ;  with 
wonderful  art  he  has  traced  all  the  leading  features  of  his 
several  portraits,  and  given  with  truth  the  characteristic  pe¬ 
culiarities  of  each  5  no  man  is  lampooned,  no  man  is  flatter¬ 
ed.  The  occasion  of  the  poem  was  a  circumstance  of  festivi¬ 
ty.  A  literary  party  with  which  he  occasionally  dined  at  toe 
St.  James’s  coffe-house,  one  day  proposed  to  write  epitaphs  on 
him.  In  these,  his  person,  dialect,  etc.,  were  good-humoredly 
ridiculed :  and  as  Goldsmith  could  not  disguise  his  feelings 
on  the  occasion,  he  was  called  upon  lor  a  Hetaliation,  which 
he  produced  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  party ;  but  this,  with 
his  1  Haunch  oj  Venison ,’  and  some  other  short  poems,  were 
not  printed  till  after  his  death. 

He  had  at  this  time  ready  for  the  press,  ‘  The  Grecian  His- 
tory,  from  the  earliest  State  to  the  Heath  of  Alexander  the 
Great,’  which  was  afterwards  printed  in  2  vols.  8vo.  He  had 
also  formed  a  design  of  compiling  a  ‘  Universal  Dictionary  of 
Arts  and  Sciences,’  a  prospectus  of  which  he  printed  and  sent 
to  his  friends,  many  of  whom  had  promised  to  furnish  him  with 
articles  on  different  subjects.  The  booksellers,  however 


OLIVES  GOLDSMITH. 


2*3 


though  they  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  abilities,  were  startled 
at  the  bulk,  importance,  and  expense  of  so  great  an  under¬ 
taking,  the  execution  of  which  was  to  depend  upon  a  man 
with  whose  indolence  of  temper,  and  method  of  procrastina¬ 
tion,  they  had  long  been  acquainted  :  the  coldness  with  which 
they  met  his  proposals  was  lamented  by  Goldsmith  to  the  hour 
of  his  death  ;  which  seems  to  have  been  accelerated  by  a  ne¬ 
glect  of  his  health,  occasioned  by  continual  vexation  of  mind, 
on  account  of  his  frequently  involved  circumstances,  although 
the  last  year’s  produce  of  his  labor  is  generally  believed  to 
have  amounted  to  1800Z. 

l 

In  the  spring  of  1774  he  was  attacked  in  a  very  severe 
manner  by  the  stranguary,  a  disease  of  which  he  had  often  ex¬ 
perienced  slight  symptoms.  It  now  induced  a  nervous  fever, 
which  required  medical  assistance  ;  and  on  the  25th  of  March 
he  sent  for  his  friend  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Hawes,  to  whom 
he  related  the  symptoms  of  his  malady,  expressing  at  the  same 
time  a  disgust  with  life,  and  a  despondency  which  did  not  well 
become  a  man  of  his  understanding.  He  told  Mr.  Hawes  that 
he  had  taken  two  ounces  of  ipecacuanha  wine  as  an  emetic, 
and  that  it  was  his  intention  to  take  Dr.  James’s  fever  pow¬ 
ders,  which  he  desired  he  would  send  him.  Mr.  Hawes  rep¬ 
resented  to  his  patient  the  impropriety  of  taking  the  medi¬ 
cine  at  that  time  ;  but  no  argument  could  induce  him  to  re¬ 
linquish  his  intention.  Finding  this,  and  justly  apprehen¬ 
sive  of  the  fatal  consequences  of  his  putting  this  rash  resolve 
in  execution,  he  requested  permission  to  send  for  Dr.  Fordyce, 
of  whose  medical  abilities  he  knew  that  Goldsmith  had  the 
highest  opinion.  Dr.  Fordyce  came,  and  corroborated  the 
apothecary’s  assertion,  adding  every  argument  that  he  could 
think  of  to  dissuade  him  from  using  the  powders  in  the  pres¬ 
s'* 


30 


atkin’s  memoirs  of 


ent  case  ;  but  deaf  to  all  the  remonstrances  of  his  physician 
and  his  friend,  he  obstinately  persisted  in  his  resolution. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Hawes  again  visited  his  patient,  and  in¬ 
quiring  of  him  how  he  did,  Goldsmith  sighed  deeply,  and  in 
&  dejected  tone  said,  1 1  wish  I  had  taken  your  friendly  ad¬ 
vice  last  night.  Dr.  Fordyce  came,  and,  finding  the  alarm¬ 
ing  symptoms  increase,  desired  Mr.  Hawes  to  propose  send¬ 
ing  for  Dr.  Turton :  to  this  Goldsmith  readily  consented.  The 
two  physicians  met,  and  held  consultations  twice  a  day  till 
Monday,  April  4th,  when  their  patient  died. 

Warmth  of  affection  induced  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
other  friends  of  Goldsmith  to  lay  a  plan  for  a  sumptuous  pub¬ 
lic  funeral ;  according  to  which  he  was  to  have  been  interred 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  his  pall  to  have  been  supported 
by  Lord  Shelburne  (afterwards  Marquis  of  Lansdowne),  Lord 
Louth,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Mr.  Edmund  Burke,  the  Hon. 
Topham  Beauclerc,  and  Mr.  Garrick  ;  but  on  a  slight  inspec¬ 
tion  of  his  affairs,  it  was  found  that,  so  far  from  having  left 
property  to  justify  so  expensive  a  proceeding,  he  was  about 
2000Z.  in  debt.  The  original  intention,  therefore,  was  aban¬ 
doned  ;  and  he  was  privately  interred  in  the  Temple  burial- 
ground  at  five  o’clock  on  Saturday  evening,  April  9th,  at¬ 
tended  by  the  Rev.  Joseph  Palmer  (nephew  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and  afterwards  Dean  of  Cashel  in  Ireland),  Mr. 
Hugh  Kelly,  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  Hawes,  Messrs.  John  and 
Robert  Day,  and  Mr.  Etherington. 

A  subscription,  however,  was  speedily  raised  among  Gold¬ 
smith’s  friends,  but  chiefly  by  the  Literary  Club  ;  and  a  mar¬ 
ble  monumental  stone,  executed  by  Nollekens,  consisting  of  a 
large  medallion,  exhibiting  a  good  resemblance  of  our  author 
in  profile,  embellished  with  appropriate  ornaments,  was  plac* 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


31 


ed  in  Westminster  Abbey,  between  those  of  Gay  the  poet 
and  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  in  Poet’s  Corner ;  having  under¬ 
neath,  on  a  tablet  of  white  marble,  the  following  inscription, 
irom  the  pen  of  his  friend,  Dr.  Johnson  :  — 

Olivarii  Goldsmith, 

Poetae,  Physici,  Ilistorici, 

Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus 
Non  tetigit; 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit : 

Sive  risus  cssent  inovendi 
Sive  lacrymae, 

Atfectuum  potens  et  lenis  dominator, 

Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 

Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  venustus 
Hoc  monumento  memoriam  coluit 
Sodalium  amor, 

Amicorum  tides, 

Lcctorum  veneratio. 

Natus  in  Hibernia,  Forneim  Longfordiensis, 

In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas, 

NOV.  XXIX,  MDCCXXXI.+ 

Eblamc  literis  institutus, 

Obiit  Londini, 

Apr.  IV,  MDCCLXXIV. 


Of  which  the  following  is  a  translation :  — 

By  the  love  of  his  associates, 

The  fidelity  of  his  friends, 

And  the  veneration  of  his  readers. 

This  monument  is  raised 

*  Johnson  had  been  misinformed  in  these  particulars :  it  has  been 
since  ascertained  that  he  was  born  at  Elphin,  in  the  county  of  Rosoom- 
moil,  Nov.  29,  1728. 


32 


aikin's  memoirs  of 


To  the  memory  of 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

A  poet,  a  natural  philosopher,  and  an  historian, 

Who  left  no  species  of  writing  untouched  by  his  pen 
Nor  touched  any  that  he  did  not  embellish  : 

Whether  smiles  or  tears  were  to  be  excited, 

He  was  a  powerful  yet  gentle  master 

Over  the  affections  ;  ’ 

Of  a  genius  at  once  sublime,  lively,  and 
equal  to  every  subject ; 

In  expression  at  once  lofty,  elegant,  and  graceful. 

He  was  bom  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland, 

At  a  place  called  Pallas,  in  the  parish  of  Eomey, 

And  county  of  Longford, 

29th  Nov.  1731  * 

Educated  at  Dublin, 

And  died  in  London, 

4th  April,  1774. 

Beside  this  Latin  epitaph,  Dr.  Johnson  honored  the  memo¬ 
ry  of  Goldsmith  with  the  following  short  one  in  Greek  : — 

Toy  rutpov  elcopaag  tov  OXifiaploio,  kovitjv 
A<ppouc  fify  GEpvrjv ,  EeIve,  nodecrcu  tzutel  • 

Oloi  pkprfkz  tyvoig ,  perpuv  xupig,  epya  tz akaiovv 
K Aaiere  ttoltjttjv,  ioropcKov,  (pvaLnov, 

Mr.  Boswell,  who  was  very  intimately  acquainted  with 
Goldsmith,  thus  speaks  of  his  person  and  character  : — 

‘  The  person  of  Goldsmith  was  short ;  his  countenance  coarse 
and  vulgar  ;  his  deportment  that  of  a  scholar,  awkwardly  af 
fecting  the  complete  gentleman.  No  man  had  the  art  of  dis' 
playing,  with  more  advantage,  whatever  literary  acquisitions 
he  made.  His  mind  resembled  a  fertile  but  thin  soil ;  there 
was  a  quick  but  not  a  strong  vegetation  of  whatevei  chanced 

*  See  the  Note  on  the  preceding  page. 


v 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


33 


to  be  thrown  upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck.  Ihe 
oak  of  the  forest  did  not  grow  there  ;  but  the  elegant  shrub¬ 
bery,  and  the  fragrant  parterre,  appeared  in  gay  succession 
It  has  been  generally  circulated,  and  believed,  that  he  was  a 
mere  fool  in  conversation.  In  allusion  to  this,  Mr.  Horatio 
Walpole,  who  admired  his  writings,  said,  he  was  “  an  inspired 
idiot ;  ”  and  Garrick  describes  him  as  one, — 

« - - - for  shortness  called  Noll, 

Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talk’d  like  poor  Poll.” 

But  in  reality  these  descriptions  are  greatly  exaggerated.  He 
had  no  doubt  a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry  of 
ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which 
sometimes  introduces  a  laughable  confusion  in  expressing  them. 
He  was  very  much  what  the  French  call  un  itourdi :  and 
from  vanity,  and  an  eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherev¬ 
er  he  was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly,  without  any  knowl¬ 
edge  of  the  subject,  or  even  without  thought.  Those  who 
were  any  ways  distinguished,  excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridic¬ 
ulous  an  excess,  that  the  instances  of  it  are  hardly  credible. 
He,  I  am  told,  had  no  settled  system  of  any  sort,  so  that  his 
conduct  must  not  be  too  strictly  criticised  ;  but  his  affections 
were  social  and  generous  \  and  when  he  had  money,  he  be¬ 
stowed  it  liberally.  His  desires  of  imaginary  consequence 
frequently  predominated  over  his  attention  to  truth. 

i  His  prose  has  been  admitted  as  the  model  of  perfection, 
and  the  standard  of  the  English  language.  I)r.  Johnson  says, 
“  Goldsmith  was  a  man  of  such  variety  of  powers,  and  such 
felicity  of  performance,  that  he  seemed  to  excel  in  whatever 
he  attempted ;  a  man  who  had  the  art  of  being  minute  with¬ 
out  tediousness,  and  generally  without  confusion  ;  whose  lan- 


84 


aikin’s  memoirs  op 


guage  was  capacious  without  exuberance  ;  exact  without  re¬ 
straint  ;  and  easy  without  weakness.” 

1  His  merit  as  a  poet  is  universally  acknowledged.  His 
writings  partake  rather  of  the  elegance  and  harmony  of  Pope, 
than  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  Milton  ;  and  it  is  to  be 
Lamented  that  Iris  poetical  productions  are  not  more  numer¬ 
ous  ;  for  though  his  ideas  flowed  rapidly,  he  arranged  them 
with  great  caution,  and  occupied  much  time  in  polishing  his 
periods,  and  harmonizing  his  numbers. 

4  His  most  favorite  poems  are,  “  The  Traveller,”  “  Desert¬ 
ed  Village,”  “  Hermit,”  and  “  Retaliation.”  These  produc¬ 
tions  may  be  justly  ranked  with  the  most  admired  works  in 
English  poetry. 

i  “  The  Traveller  ”  delights  us  with  a  display  of  charming 
imagery,  refined  ideas,  and  happy  expressions.  The  charac¬ 
teristics  of  the  different  nations  are  strongly  marked,  and  the 
predilection  of  each  inhabitant  in  favor  of  his  own  ingeniously 
described. 

‘  “  The  Deserted  Village  ”  is  generally  admired  ;  the  char¬ 
acters  are  drawn  from  the  life.  The  descriptions  are  lively 
and  picturesque  ;  and  the  whole,  appears  so  easy  and  natural, 
as  to  bear  the  semblance  of.  historical  truth  more  than  poeti¬ 
cal  fiction.  The  description  of  the  parish  priest,  (probably  in¬ 
tended  for  a  character  of  his  brother  Henry)  wrould  have 
done  honor  to  any  poet  of  any  age.  In  this  description,  the 
simile  of  the  bird  teaching  her  young  to  fly,  and  of  the  moun¬ 
tain  that  rises  above  the  storm,  are  not  easily  to  be  paralleled. 
The  rest  of  the  poem  consists  of  the  character  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  and  a  description  of  the  village  alehouse ;  both 
drawn  with  admirable  propriety  and  force  ;  a  descant  on  the 
mischiefs  of  luxury  and  wealth;  the  variety  of  artificial  pleas 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


35 


nres ;  the  miseries  of  those  who,  for  want  cf  employment  at 
home,  are  driven  to  settle  new  colonies  abroad ;  and  concludes 
with  a  beautiful  apostrophe  to  poetry. 

4  “  The  Hermit  ”  holds  equal  estimation  with  the  rest  of  his 
poetical  productions. 

4  His  last  poem,  of  “  Retaliation,”  is  replete  with  humor, 
free  from  spleen,  and  forcibly  exhibits  the  prominent  features 
of  the  several  characters  to  which  it  alludes.  Hr.  JohnsoD 
sums  up  his  literary  character  in  the  following  concise  man¬ 
ner  :  “  Take  him  [Goldsmith]  as  a  poet,  his  ‘  Traveller  ’  is  a 
very  fine  performance ;  and  so  is  his  ‘  Deserted  Village,’  were 
it  not  sometimes  too  much  the  echo  of  his  ‘  Traveller.’  Wheth¬ 
er  we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer,  or  as  an  histori¬ 
an,  he  stands  in  the  first  class.”  ’ 

We  have  before  observed,  that  his  poem  of  4  Retaliation  ’ 
was  provoked  by  several  jocular  epitaphs  written  upon  him 
by  the  different  members  of  a  dinner  club  to  which  he  be¬ 
longed.  Of  these  we  subjoin  a  part  of  that  which  was  pro¬ 
duced  by  Garrick: — 

‘  Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 

Go,  fetch  me  some  clay — I  will  make  an  odd  fellow* 

Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled;  much  gold  and  some  dross  ; 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross ; 

Be  sure,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions  ; 

A  great  lover  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turned  to  fictions. 

Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm’d  in  the  baking, 

Turn  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion  and  raking ; 

With  the  love  of  a  wench,  let  his  writings  be  chaste, 

Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  pen  with  fine  taste: 

That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o’er  all  may  prevail, 

Set  fire  to  his  head,  and  set  fire  to  his  tail ; 

For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I’ll  bestow  it, 

This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 


36 


aikin’s  memoirs  of 


Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 

And  among  other  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name. 

When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  apj  cai, 

You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him.  to  make  us  sport  here. 

To  these  we  shall  add  another  sketch  of  our  author  'bj 
Why  of  Epitaph),  written  by  a  friend  as  soon  as  he  heard  of 
his  death :  — 

‘  Here  rests  from  the  cares  of  the  world  t.nd  his  pen, 

A  poet  whose  like  we  shall  scarce  meet  again  ; 

Who,  though  form’d  in  an  age  when  corruptions  ran  high. 
And  folly  alone  seem’d  with  folly  to  vie  ; 

When  Genius  with  traffic  too  commonly  train’d, 

Recounted  her  merits  by  what  she  had  gain’d, 

Tet  spurn’d  at  those  walks  of  debasement  and  pelf, 

And  in  poverty’s  spite  dared  to  think  for  himself. 

Thus  freed  from  those  fetters  the  muses  oft  hind, 

He  wrote  from  the  heart  to  the  hearts  of  mankind ; 

And  such  was  the  prevalent  force  of  his  song, 

Sex,  ages,  and  parties,  he  drew  in  a  throng. 

The  lovers  t  was  theirs  to  esteem  and  commend 
For  his  Hermit  had  proved  him  their  tutor  and  friend. 

The  statesman,  his  politic  passions  on  tire, 

Acknowledged  repose  from  the  charms  of  his  lyre. 

The  moralist  too  had  a  feel  for  his  rhymes, 

For  his  Essays  were  curbs  on  the  rage  of  the  times. 

Nay,  the  critic,  all  school’d  in  grammatical  sense, 
ho  looked  in  the  glow  of  description  for  tense , 

Reform'd  as  he  read,  fell  a  dupe  to  his  art, 

And  confess’d  by  his  eyes  what  he  felt  at  his  heart. 

‘Yet,  bless’d  with  original  powers  like  these, 

His  principal  forte  was  on  paper  to  please  5 

Hike  a  fleet  footed  hunter,  though  first  in  the  chase, 

On  the  road  of  plain  sense  he  oft  slackened  his  pace  ; 

Whilst  Dulness  and  Cunning,  by  whipping  and  goring,. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


37 


Their  hard-footed  hackneys  paraded  before  him. 
Compounded  likewise  of  such  primitive  parts, 

That  his  manners  alone  would  have  gain’d  him  our  hearts. 
So  simple  in  truth,  so  ingenuously  kind, 

So  ready  to  feel  for  the  wants  of  mankind ; 

Yet  praise  but  an  author  of  popular  quill, 

This  lux  of  philantliropy  quickly  stood  still ; 

Transform’d  from  himself,  he  grew  meanly  severe, 

And  rail’d  at  those  talents  he  ought  not  to  fear. 

‘  Such  then  were  his  foibles ;  but  though  they  were  such 
As  shadow’d  the  picture  a  little  too  much, 

The  style  was  all  graceful,  expressive,  and  grand, 

And  the  whole  the  result  of  a  masterly  hand. 

‘  Then  hear  me,  blest  spirit !  now  seated  above, 

Where  all  is  beatitude,  concord,  and  love, 

If  e’er  thy  regards  were  bestow’d  on  mankind, 

Thy  muse  as  a  legacy  leave  us  behind. 

I  ask  it  by  proxy  for  letters  and  fame, 

As  the  pride  of  our  heart  and  the  old  English  name. 

I  demand  it  as  such  for  virtue  and  truth, 

As  the  solace  of  age  and  the  guide  of  our  youth. 

Consider  what  poets  surround  us— how  dull ! 

E rom  Minstrelsy  B - e  to  Rosamond  H — 11 1 

Consider  what  K — ys  enervate  the  stage  ; 

Consider  what  K - cks  may  poison  the  age ; 

O  !  protect  us  from  such,  nor  let  it  be  said, 

That  in  Goldsmith  the  last  British  poet  lies  dead  ! 


_ 


ON  TUB 


POETRY  OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH 


BY  DR.  AIKIN, 


Among  those  false  opinions  which,  having  once  obtained 
currency,  have  been  adopted  without  examination,  may  be 
reckoned  the  prevalent  notion,  that,  notwithstanding  the  im¬ 
provement  of  this  country  in  many  species  of  literary  compo¬ 
sition,  its  poetical  character  has  been  on  the  decline  ever  since 
the  supposed  Augustan  age  of  the  beginning  of  this  [the  18th] 
century.  No  one  poet,  it  is  true,  has  fully  succeeded  to  the 
laurel  of  Dryden  or  Pope  ;  but  if  without  prejudice  we  com¬ 
pare  the  minor  poets  of  the  present  age  ( minor ,  I  mean,  with 
respect  to  the  quantity ,  not  the  quality ,  of  their  productions), 
with  those  of  any  former  period,  we  shall,  I  am  convinced, 
find  them  greatly  superior  not  only  in  taste  and  correctness, 
but  in  every  other  point  of  poetical  excellence.  The  works 
of  many  late  and  present  writers  might  be  confidently  appeal¬ 
ed  to  in  proof  of  this  assertion  ;  but  it  will  suffice  to  instance 
the  author  who  is  the  subject  of  the  present  Essay  ;  and  1 
cannot  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  place  the  name  of  Goldsmith 
as  a  poet,  above  that  of  Addison,  Parnell,  Tickell,  Congreve, 
Lansdown,  or  any  of  those  who  fill  the  greater  part  of  the 


ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH’S  POETRY. 


39 


voluminous  collection  of  the  English  Poets.  Of  these,  the  main 
body  has  obtained  a  prescriptive  right  to  the  honor  of  classi- 
cal  writers  ;  while  their  works,  ranged  on  the  shelves  as  neces¬ 
sary  appendages  to  a  modern  library,  are  rarely  taken  down, 
&nd  contribute  very  little  to  the  stock  of  literary  amusement. 
Whereas  the  pieces  of  Goldsmith  are  our  familiar  compan¬ 
ions  ;  and  supply  passages  for  recollection,  when  our  minds 
are  either  composed  to  moral  reflection,  or  warmed  by 
strong  emotions  and  elevated  conceptions.  Theie  is,  I 

O 

acknowledge,  much  of  habit  and  accident  m  the  attach¬ 
ments  we  form  to  particular  writers  ;  yet  I  have  little 
doubt,  that  if  the  lovers  of  English  poetry  were  confined 
to  a  small  selection  of  authors,  Goldsmith  would  find 
a  place  in  the  favorite  list  of  a  great  majority.  And  it  is, 
I  think,  with  much  justice  that  a  great  modern  critic  has  ever 
regarded  this  concurrence  of  public  favor,  as  one  of  the  least 
equivocal  tests  of  uncommon  merit.  Some  kinds  of  excellence, 
it  is  true,  will  more  readily  be  recognized  than  others  ;  and 
this  will  not  always  be  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  mental 
power  employed  in  the  respective  productions :  but  he  wrho 
obtains  general  and  lasting  applause  in  any  work  of  ait, 
must  have  happily  executed  a  design  judiciously  formed. 
This  remark  is  of  fundamental  consequence  in  estimating  the 
poetry  of  Goldsmith  ;  because  it  will  enable  us  to  hold  the 
balance  steady,  when  it  might  be  disposed  to  incline  to  the 
superior  claims  of  a  style  of  loftier  pretension,  and  more 
brilliant  reputation. 

Compared  with  many  poets  of  deserved  eminence,  Gold¬ 
smith  will  appear  characterized  by  his  simplicity.  In  his  lan  ¬ 
guage  will  be  found  few  of  those  figures  which  are  supposed 
of  themselves  to  constitute  poetry  ;  —  no  violent  transpositions  ; 


40 


ON  THE  POETRY 


no  uncommon  meanings  and  constructions  ;  no  epithet*  drawn 
from  abstract  and  remote  ideas  ;  no  coinage  of  new  words  Dy 
the  ready  mode  of  turning  nouns  into  verbs ;  ho  bold  prosopo¬ 
poeia,  or  audacious  metaphor  :  —  it  scarcely  contains  an  ex¬ 
pression  which  might  not  be  used  in  eloquent  and  descriptive 
prose  It  is  replete  with  imagery ;  but  that  imagery  is  drawn 
from  obvious  sources,  and  rather  enforces  the  simple  idea,  than 
dazzles  by  new  and  unexpected  ones.  It  rejects  not  common 
words  and  phrases ;  and,  like  the  language  of  Dryden  and 
Otway,  is  thereby  rendered  the  more  forcible  and  pathetic. 
It  is  eminently  nervous  and  concise  ;  and  hence  alfords  nu¬ 
merous  passages  which  dwell  on  the  memory.  With  respect 
to  his  matter,  it  is  taken  from  human  life,  and  the  objects  of 
nature.  It  does  not  body  forth  things  unknown,  and  create 
new  beings.  Its  humbler  purpose  is  to  represent  manners  and 
characters  as  they  really  exist ;  to  impress  strongly  on  the 
heart  moral  and  political  sentiments  ;  and  to  fill  the  imagina¬ 
tion  with  a  variety  of  pleasing  or  affecting  objects  selected 
from  the  stores  of  nature.  If  this  be  not  the  highest  depart¬ 
ment  of  poetry,  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  the  most  uni¬ 
versally  agreeable.  To  receive  delight  from  the  sublime  fic¬ 
tions  of  Milton,  the  allegories  of  Spenser,  the  learning  of  Gray , 
and  the  fancy  of  Collins,  the  mind  must  have  been  prepared 
by  a  course  of  particular  study;  and  perhaps,  at  a  certain 
period  of  life,  when  the  judgment  exercises  a  severer  scrutiny 
over  the  sallies  of  the  imagination,  the  relish  for  artificial 
beauties  will  always  abate,  if  not  entirely  desert  us.  But  at 
every  age,  and  with  every  degree  of  culture,  correct  and  well- 
chosen  representations  of  nature  must  please.  We  admire  them 
when  young  ;  -we  recur  to  them  when  old ;  and  they  charm 
us  till  nothing  longer  can  charm.  Farther,  in  forming  a  scale 


OP  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


41 


of  excellence  for  artists,  we  are  not  only  to  consider  who 
works  upon  the  noblest  design,  but  who  fills  his  design  best. 
It  is,  in  reality,  but  a  poor  excuse  for  a  slovenly  performer  to 
say  ‘  magnis  tamen  excidit  ausis  ;  *  and  the  addition  of  one 
master-piece  of  any  kind  to  the  stock  of  art,  is  a  greater  ben¬ 
efit,  than  that  of  a  thousand  abortive  and  mis-shapen  wonders. 

If  Goldsmith  then  be  referred  to  the  class  of  descriptive 
poets ,  including  the  description  of  moral  as  well  as  of  physical 
nature,  it  will  next  be  important  to  inquire  by  what  means 
he  has  attained  the  rank  of  a  master  in  his  class.  Let  us  then 
observe  how  he  has  selected,  combined,  and  contrasted  his 
objects,  with  what  truth  and  strength  of  coloring  he  has  ex 
pressed  them,  and  to  what  end  and  purpose. 

As  poetry  and  eloquence  do  not  describe  by  an  exact  enu¬ 
meration  of  every  circumstance,  it  is  necessary  to  select  cer¬ 
tain  particulars  which  may  excite  a  sufficiently  distinct  imago 
of  the  thing  to  be  represented.  In  this  selection ,  the  great  art 
is  to  give  characteristic  marks ,  whereby  the  object  may  at  once 
be  recognized,  without  being  obscured  in  a  mass  of  common 
properties,  which  belong  equally  to  many  others.  Hence  the 
great  superiority  of  particular  images  to  general  ones  in  de¬ 
scription :  the  former  identify,  while  the  latter  disguise.  Thus, 
all  the  hackneyed  representations  of  the  country  in  the  works 
of  ordinary  versifiers,  in  which  groves,  and  rills,  and  flowery 
meads  are  introduced  just  as  the  rhyme  and  measure  require, 
present  nothing  to  the  fancy  but  an  indistinct  daub  of  color¬ 
ing,  in  which  all  the  diversity  of  nature  is  lost  and  confounded. 
To  catch  the  discriminating  features,  and  present  them  bold 
and  prominent,  by  few,  but  decisive  strokes,  is  the  talent  of  a 
master ;  and  it  will  not  be  easy  to  produce  a  superior  to 
Goldsmith  in  this  respect.  The  mind  is  never  in  doubt  as 

4* 


42 


ON  THE  POETRY 


to  the  meaning  of  his  figures,  nor  does  it  languish  over  the 
survey  of  trivial  and  unappropriated  circumstances.  All  is 
alive  —  all  is  filled  —  yet  all  is  clear. 

The  proper  combination  of  objects  refers  to  the  impression 
they  are  calculated  to  make  on  the  mind  ;  and  requires  thaf 
they  should  harmonize,  and  reciprocally  enforce  and  sustain 
each  other’s  effect.  They  should  unite  in  giving  one  leading 
tone  to  the  imagination ;  and  without  a  sameness  of  form,  they 
should  blend  in  an  uniformity  of  hue.  This,  too,  has  very  suc- 
cessfully  been  attended  to  by  Goldsmith,  who  has  not  only 
sketched  his  single  figures  with  truth  and  spirit,  but  has  com- 
bined  them  into  the  most  harmonious  and  impressive  groups. 
Nor  has  any  descriptive  poet  better  understood  the  great  force 
of  contrast ,  in  setting  off  his  scenes,  and  preventing  any  ap¬ 
proach  to  wearisomeness  by  repetition  of  kindred  objects. 
And,  with  great  skill,  he  has  contrived  that  both  parts  of  his 
coutrast  should  conspire  in  producing  one  intended  moral  ef¬ 
fect  Of  all  these  excellences,  examples  will  be  pointed  out 
as  we  take  a  cursory  view  of  the  particular  pieces. 

In  addition  to  the  circumstances  already  noted,  the  force 
and  clearness  of  representation  depend  also  on  the  diction. 
It  has  already  been  observed,  that  Goldsmith’s  language  is 
remarkable  for  its  general  simplicity,  and  the  direct  and  proper 
use  of  words.  It  has  ornaments,  but  these  are  not  far-fetched. 
The  epithets  employed  are  usually  qualities  strictly  belonging 
to  the  subject,  and  the  true  coloring  of  the  simple  figure 
They  are  frequently  contrived  to  express  a  necessary  circum¬ 
stance  in  the  description,  and  thus  avoid  the  usual  imputation 
of  being  expletive.  Of  this  kind  are  ‘  the  rattling  terrors  of 
the  vengeful  snake  ;  ‘indurated  heart;’  ‘  shed  intolerable  day ; 

‘  matted  woods ‘  ventrous  ploughshare  ‘  equinoctial  fervors.’ 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


43 


The  examples  are  not  few  of  that  Indisputable  mark  of  true 
poetic  language,  where  a  single  word  conveys  an  image  ;  as  in 
these  instances  :  ‘  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ‘  scoops 
out  an  empire  ‘  the  vessel,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every 
gale  ‘  to  winnow  fragrance ‘  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale,’ 
Ail  metaphor,  indeed,  does  this  in  some  degree  ;  but  where  the 
accessory  idea  is  either  indistinct  or  incongruous,  as  frequently 
happens  when  it  is  introduced  as  an  artifice  to  force  language 
up  to  poetry,  the  effect  is  only  a  gaudy  obscurity. 

The  end  and  purpose  to  which  description  is  directed  in 
what  distinguishes  a  well-planned  piece  from  a  loose  effusion  ; 
for  though  a  vivid  representation  of  striking  objects  will  ever 
afford  some  pleasure,  yet  if  aim  and  design  be  wanting,  to 
give  it  a  basis,  and  stamp  it  with  the  dignity  of  meaning,  it 
will  in  a  long  performance  prove  flat  and  tiresome.  But  this 
is  a  want  which  cannot  be  charged  on  Goldsmith  ;  for  both 
the  Traveller  and  the  Deserted  Village  have  a  great  moral  in 
view,  to  which  the  whole  of  the  description  is  made  to  tend. 
I  do  not  now  inquire  into  the  legitimacy  of  the  conclusions 
he  has  drawn  from  his  premises  ;  it  is  enough  to  justify  his 
plans,  that  such  a  purpose  is  included  in  them. 

The  versification  of  Goldsmith  is  formed  on  the  general 
model  that  has  been  adopted  since  the  refinement  of  English 
poetry,  and  especially  since  the  time  of  Pope.  To  manage 
rhyme  couplets  so  as  to  produce  a  pleasing  effect  on  the  ear 
has  since  that  period  been  so  common  an  attainment,  that  it 
merits  no  particular  admiration.  Goldsmith  may,  I  think, 
be  said  to  have  come  up  to  the  usual  standard  of  proficiency 
in  this  respect,  without  having  much  surpassed  it  A  musical 
ear,  and  a  familiarity  with  the  best  examples,  have  enabled 
him,  without  much  apparent  study,  almost  always  to  avoid 


44 


ON  TTTE  TOETRT 


defect,  and  very  often  to  produce  excellence.  It  is  no  censure 
of  this  poet  to  say  that  his  versification  presses  less  on  the  at¬ 
tention  than  his  matter.  In  fact  he  has  none  of  those  pecu¬ 
liarities  of  versifying,  whether  improvements  or  not,  that  some 
who  aim  at  distinction  in  this  point  have  adopted.  He  gen¬ 
erally  suspends  or  closes  the  sense  at  the  end  of  the  line  or  of 
the  couplet ;  and  therefore  does  not  often  give  examples  of 
that  greater  compass  and  variety  of  melody  which  is  obtained 
by  longer  clauses,  or  by  breaking  the  coincidences  of  the  ca¬ 
dence  of  sound  and  meaning.  He  also  studiously  rejects  trip¬ 
lets  and  alexandrines.  But  allowing  for  the  want  of  these 
sources  of  variety,  he  has  sufficiently  avoided  monotony ;  and 
in  the  usual  llow  of  his  measure,  he  has  gratified  the  ear  with 
as  much  change,  as  judiciously  shifting  the  line-pause  can  pro¬ 
duce. 

Having  made  these  general  observations  on  the  nature  of 
Goldsmith’s  poetry,  I  proceed  to  a  survey  of  his  principal 
pieces. 

The  Traveller ,  or  Prospect  of  Society ,  was  first  sketched  out 
by  the  author  during  a  tour  in  Europe,  great  part  of  which 
he  performed  on  foot,  and  in  circumstances  which  afforded 
him  the  fullest  means  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  most 
numerous  class  in  society,  peculiarly  termed  the  people  The 
date  of  the  first  edition  is  1765.  It  begins  in  the  gloomy 
mood  natural  to  genius  in  distress,  when  wandering  alone, 

‘  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow.’ 

After  an  affectionate  and  regretful  glance  to  the  peaceful 
seat  of  fraternal  kindness,  and  some  expressions  of  self-pity, 
the  Poet  sits  down  amid  Alpine  solitudes  to  spend  a  pensive 
hour  in  meditating  on  the  state  of  mankind.  He  finds  that 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


45 


the  natives  of  every  land  regard  their  own  with  preference  5 
whence  he  is  led  to  this  proposition,  —  that  if  we  impartially 
compare  the  advantages  belonging  to  different  countries,  we 
bhall  conclude  that  an  equal  portion  of  good  is  dealt  to  all  the 
human  race.  He  farther  supposes,  that  ever}'  nation,  having 
in  view  one  peculiar  species  of  happiness,  models  life  to  that 
alone  ;  whence  this  favorite  kind,  pushed  to  an  extreme,  be¬ 
comes  a  source  of  peculiar  evils.  To  exemplify  this  by  in¬ 
stances,  is  the  business  of  the  subsequent  descriptive  part  of 
the  piece. 

Italy  is  the  first  country  that  comes  under  review.  Its  gen¬ 
eral  landscape  is  painted  by  a  few  characteristic  strokes,  and 
the  felicity  of  its  climate  is  displayed  in  appropriate  imagery. 
The  revival  of  arts  and  commerce  in  Italy,  and  their  subse¬ 
quent  decline,  are  next  touched  upon  ;  and  hence  is  derived 
the  present  disposition  of  the  people  —  easily  pleased  with 
splendid  trifles,  the  wrecks  of  their  former  grandeur ;  and 
sunk  into  an  enfeebled  moral  and  intellectual  character,  re¬ 
ducing  them  to  the  level  of  children. 

From  these  he  turns  with  a  sort  of  disdain,  to  view  a  no¬ 
bler  race,  hardened  by  a  rigorous  climate,  and  by  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  unabating  toil.  These  are  the  Swiss ,  who  find,  in  the 
equality  of  their  condition,  and  their  ignorance  of  other  modes 
of  life,  a  source  of  content  which  remedies  the  natural  evils 
of  their  lot.  There  cannot  be  a  more  delightful  picture  than 
the  poet  has  drawn  of  the  Swiss  peasant,  going  forth  to  hia 
morning’s  labor,  and  returning  at  night  to  the  bosom  of  do¬ 
mestic  happiness.  It  sufficiently  accounts  for  that  patriot  pa^ 
non  for  which  they  have  ever  been  so  celebrated,  and  which 
is  here  described  in  lines  that  reach  the  heart,  and  is  illustrat¬ 
ed  by  a  beautiful  simile.  But  thii?  state  of  life  has  also  it9 


46 


ON  THE  POETRY 


disadvantages.  The  sources  of  enjoyment  being  few,  a  vacant 
listlessness  is  apt  to  creep  upon  the  breast ;  and  if  nature 
urges  to  throw  this  off  by  occasional  bursts  of  pleasure,  no 
stimulus  can  reach  the  purpose  but  gross  sensual  debauch. 
Their  morals,  too,  like  their  enjoyments,  are  of  a  coarse  tex¬ 
ture.  Some  sterner  virtues  hold  high  dominion  in  their 
breast,  but  all  the  gentler  and  more  refined  qualities  of  the 
heart,  which  soften  and  sweeten  life,  are  exiled  to  milder  cli¬ 
mates. 

To  the  more  genial  climate  of  France  the  traveller  next 
repairs,  and  in  a  very  pleasing  rural  picture  he  introduces 
himself  in  the  capacity  of  musician  to  a  village  party  of  danc¬ 
ers  beside  the  murmuring  Loire.  The  leading  feature  of  this 
nation  he  represents  as  being  the  love  of  praise  ;  which  pas¬ 
sion,  while  it  inspires  sentiments  of  honor,  and  a  desire  of 
pleasing,  also  affords  a  free  course  to  folly,  and  nourishes  van¬ 
ity  and  ostentation.  The  soul,  accustomed  to  depend  for  its 
happiness  on  foreign  applause,  shifts  its  principles  with  the 
change  of  fashion,  and  is  a  stranger  to  the  value  of  self-ap¬ 
probation. 

The  strong  contrast  to  this  national  character  is  sought  in 
Holland  ;  a  most  graphical  description  of  the  scenery  present¬ 
ed  by  that  singular  country  introduces  the  moral  portrait  of 
the  people.  From  the  necessity  of  unceasing  labor,  induced 
by  their  peculiar  circumstances,  a  habit  of  industry  has  been 
formed,  of  which  the  natural  consequence  is  a  love  of  gain. 
The  possession  of  exuberant  wealth  has  given  rise  to  the  arts 
and  conveniences  of  life  ;  but  at  the  same  time  has  introduc¬ 
ed  &  crafty,  cold,  and  mercenary  temper,  which  sets  every¬ 
thing,  even  liberty  itself,  at  a  price.  How  different,  exclaims 


i)h'  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


47 


the  poet,  from  their  Belgian  ancestors !  how  different  from  the 
present  race  of  Britain ! 

To  Britain,  then,  he  turns,  and  begins  with  a  slight  sketch 
of  the  country,  in  which,  he  says,  the  mildest  charms  of  crea¬ 
tion  are  combined. 

*  Extremes  are  only  in  the  master’s  mind.’ 

He  then  draws  a  very  striking  picture  of  a  stern,  thoughtful, 
independent  freeman,  a  creature  of  reason,  unfashioned  by  the 
common  forms  of  life,  and  loose  from  all  its  ties  ; — and  this  he 
gives  as  the  representative  of  the  English  character.  A  so¬ 
ciety  formed  by  such  unyielding,  self-dependent  beings,  will 
naturally  be  a  scene  of  violent  political  contests,  and  ever  in 
a  ferment  with  party.  And  a  still  worse  fate  awaits  it ;  for 
the  ties  of  nature,  duty,  and  love,  failing,  the  fictitious  bonds 
of  wealth  and  law  must  be  employed  to  hold  together  such  a 
reluctant  association  ;  whence  the  time  may  come,  that  valor, 
learning,  and  patriotism,  may  all  lie  levelled  in  one  sink  ot 
avarice.  These  are  the  ills  of  freedom  j  but  the  Poet,  who 
would  only  repress  to  secure,  goes  on  to  deliver  his  ideas  of 
the  cause  of  such  mischiefs,  which  he  seems  to  place  in  the 
usurpations  of  aristocratical  upon  regal  authority ;  and  with 
great  energy  he  expresses  his  indignation  at  the  oppressions 
the  poor  suffer  from  their  petty  tyrants.  This  leads  him  to  a 
kind  of  anticipation  of  the  subject  of  his  ‘  Deserted  A  illage/ 
where,  laying  aside  the  politician,  and  resuming  the  poet,  he 
describes,  by  a  few  highly  pathetic  touches,  the  depopulated 
fields,  the  ruined  village,  and  the  poor,  forlorn  inhabitants, 
driven  from  their  beloved  home,  and  exposed  to  all  the  per¬ 
ils  of  the  transatlantic  wilderness.  It  is  by  no  means  my  in¬ 
tention  to  enter  into  a  discussion  of  Goldsmitii’b  politica 


48 


ON  THE  POETRY 


opinions,  which  bear  evident  marks  of  confused  rotions  and  a 
heated  imagination.  I  shall  confine  myself  to  a  remark  upon 
the  English  national  character,  which  will  apply  to  him  in 
common  with  various  other  writers,  native  and  foreign. 

This  country'  has  long  been  in  the  possession  of  more  unro- 
Birained  freedom  of  thinking  and  acting  than  any'  other  perhaps 
that  ever  existed ;  a  consequence  of  which  has  been,  that  all 
those  peculiarities  of  character,  which  in  other  nations  remain 
concealed  in  the  general  mass,  have  here  stood  forth  prominent 
and  conspicuous ;  and  these  being  from  their  nature  calculated 
to  draw  attention,  have  by  superficial  observers  been  mistaken 
for  the  general  character  of  the  people.  This  has  been  par¬ 
ticularly  the  case  with  political  distinction.  From  the  publici¬ 
ty  of  all  proceedings  in  the  legislative  part  of  our  constitution 
and  the  independence  with  which  many  act,  all  party  differ¬ 
ences  are  strongly  marked,  and  public  men  take  their  side 
with  openness  and  confidence.  Public  topics,  too,  are  dis¬ 
cussed  by  all  ranks ;  and  whatever  seeds  there  are  in  any 
part  of  the  society  of  spirit  and  activity,  have  full  opportunity’ 
of  crernnnating.  But  to  imagine  that  these  busy  and  high- 
spirited  characters  compose  a  majority  of  the  community,  or 
perhaps  a  much  greater  proportion  than  in  other  countries,  is 
a  delusion.  This  nation,  as  a  body’,  is,  like  all  others,  char¬ 
acterized  by'  circumstances  of  its  situation ;  and  a  rich  com¬ 
mercial  people,  long  trained  to  society,  inhabiting  a  climate 
where  many  tilings  are  necessarv  to  the  comfort  of  life,  and 
under  a  government  abounding  with  splendid  distinctions, 
cannot  possibly’  be  a  knot  of  philosophers  and  patriots. 

To  return  from  this  digression.  Though  it  is  probable  that 
few  of  Goldsmith’s  readers  will  be  convinced,  even  from 
the  instances  he  has  himself  produced,  that  the  happinoxi  of 


v 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


49 


mankind  is  everywhere  equal ;  yet  all  will  feel  the  force  of 
the  truly  philosophical  sentiment  which  concludes  the  piece  — 
that  man’s  chief  bliss  is  ever  seated  in  his  mind  ;  and  that  but 
a  small  part  of  real  felicity  consists  in  what  human  govern¬ 
ments  can  either  bestow  or  withhold. 

The  Deserted  Village ,  first  printed  in  1769,  is  the  compan¬ 
ion-piece  of  the  Traveller,  formed,  like  it,  upon  a  plan  which 
unites  description  with  sentiment,  and  employs  both  in  incul¬ 
cating  a  political  moral.  It  is  a  view  of  the  prosperous  and 
ruined  state  of  a  country  village,  with  reflections  on  the  caus¬ 
es  of  both.  Such  it  may  be  defined  in  prose  ;  but  the  dispo¬ 
sition,  management,  and  coloring  of  the  piece,  are  all  calculat¬ 
ed  for  poetical  effect.  It  begins  with  a  delightful  picture  of 
Auburn  when  inhabited  by  a  happy  people.  The  view  of  the 
village  itself,  and  the  rural  occupations  and  pastimes  of  its  sim¬ 
ple  natives,  is  in  the  best  style  of  painting,  by  a  selection  of 
characteristic  circumstances.  Is  is  immediately  contrasted  by 
a  similar  bold  sketch  of  its  ruined  and  desolated  condition. 
Then  succeeds  an  imaginary  state  of  England,  in  a  kind  ot 
golden  age  of  equality  ;  with  its  contrast  likewise.  The  apos¬ 
trophe  that  follows,  the  personal  complaint  of  the  poet,  and  the 
portrait  of  a  sage  in  retirement,  are  sweetly  sentimental  touch¬ 
es,  that  break  the  continuity  of  description. 

He  returns  to  Auburn ,  and  having  premised  another  mas¬ 
terly  sketch  of  its  two  states,  in  which  the  images  are  chiefly 
drawn  from  sounds,  he  proceeds  to  what  may  be  called  the 
interior  history  of  the  village.  In  his  first  figure  he  has  tried 
his  strength  with  Dryden.  The  parish  priest  of  that  great 
{Kjet,  improved  from  Chaucer,  is  a  portrait  full  ot  beauty,  but 
drawn  in  a  loose,  unequal  manner,  with  the  flowing  vein  o. 
digressive  thought  and  imager}’  that  stamps  his  style.  The 


50 


ON  THE  POETRY 


subject  of  the  draught,  too,  is  considerably  different  from  that 
cf  Goldsmith,  having  more  of  the  ascetic  and  mortified  cast, 
in  conformity  to  the  saintly  model  of  the  Eoman  Catholic 
priesthood.  The  pastor  of  Auburn  is  more  human ,  but  ia 
not  on  that  account  a  less  venerable  and  inteiestin^  figure  : 
though  I  know  not  whether  all  will  be  pleased  with  his  famil¬ 
iarity  with  vicious  characters,  which  goes  beyond  the  purposa 
of  mere  reformation.  The  description  of  him  in  his  profes¬ 
sional  character  is  truly  admirable  ;  and  the  similes  of  the 
bird  instructing  his  young  to  fly,  and  the  tall  cliff  rising  above 
the  storm,  have  been  universally  applauded.  The  first,  I  be- 
lieve,  is  original ;  —  the  second  is  not  so,  though  it  has  pro¬ 
bably  never  been  so  well  drawn  and  applied.  The  subse¬ 
quent  sketches  of  the  village  schoolmaster  and  alehouse,  are 
close  imitations  of  nature  in  low  life,  like  the  pictures  of 
Teniers  and  Hogarth.  Yet  even  these  humorous  scenes  slide 
imperceptibly  into  sentiment  and  pathos  ;  and  the  comparison 
of  the  simple  pleasures  of  the  poor,  with  the  splendid  festivities 
of  the  opulent,  rises  to  the  highest  style  of  moral  poetry- 
Who  has  not  felt  the  force  of  that  reflection, 

‘  The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy?  ’ 

The  writer  then  falls  into  a  strain  of  reasoning  against  lux 
ury  and  superfluous  wealth,  in  which  the  sober  inquirer  will 
find  much  serious  truth,  though  mixed  with  poetical  exagger¬ 
ation.  The  description  of  the  contrasted  scenes  of  magnifi¬ 
cence  and  misery  in  a  great  metropolis,  closed  by  the  pathetic 
figure  of  the  forlorn,  ruined  female,  is  not  to  be  surpassed. 

Were  not  the  subjects  of  Goldsmith’s  description  so 
skilfully  varied,  the  uniformity  of  manner,  consisting  in  an 
enumeration  of  single  circumstances,  generally  depicted  in 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


51 


single  lines,  might  tire  ;  but,  where  is  the  reader  who  can  avoid 
being  hurried  along  by  the  swift  current  of  imagery,  when  to 
such  a  passage  as  the  last  succeeds  a  landscape  fraught  with 
all  the  sublime  terrors  of  the  torrid  zone  ;  —  and  then,  an  ex¬ 
quisitely  tender  history-piece  of  the  departure  of  the  villagers 
concluded  with  a  group  (slightly  touched  indeed)  of  alle¬ 
gorical  personages  ?  A  noble  address  to  the  Genius  of  Poetry, 
in  which  is  compressed  the  moral  of  the  whole,  gives  a  dig¬ 
nified  finishing  to  the  work. 

If  we  compare  these  two  principal  poems  of  Goldsmith, 
we  may  say,  that  the  4  Traveller  ’  is  formed  upon  a  more  regu- 
lar  plan,  has  a  higher  purpose  in  view,  more  abounds  in 
thought,  and  in  the  expression  of  moral  and  philosophical 
ideas ;  the  4  Deserted  Village  *  has  more  imagery,  more  variety, 
more  pathos,  more  of  the  peculiar  character  of  poetry.  In 
the  first,  the  moral  and  natural  descriptions  are  more  general 
and  elevated  ;  in  the  second,  they  are  more  particular  and 
interesting.  Both  are  truly  original  productions ;  but  the 
4  Deserted  Village  ’  has  less  peculiarity,  and  indeed  has  given 
rise  to  imitations  which  may  stand  in  some  parallel  with  it ; 
while  the  4  Traveller  ’  remains  an  unique. 

With  regard  to  Goldsmith’s  other  poems,  a  few  remarks 
will  suffice.  The  4  Hermit,  *  printed  in  the  same  year  with 
the  4  Traveller,  ’  has  been  a  very  popular  piece,  as  might  be 
expected  of  a  tender  tale  prettily  told.  It  is  called  a 4  Ballad,’ 
but  I  think  with  no  correct  application  of  that  term,  which 
properly  means  a  story  related  in  language  either  natur¬ 
ally  or  affectedly  rude  and  simple.  It  has  been  a  sort  of  a 
fashion  to  admire  these  productions ;  yet  in  the  really  ancient 
ballads,  for  one  stroke  of  beauty,  there  are  pages  of  insipidity 
and  vulgarity ;  and  the  imitations  have  been  pleasing  in  pro 


52 


ON  DR.  GOLDSMI1HS  POETRY. 


portion  as  they  approached  more  finished  compositions.  Id 
Goldsmith’s  i  Hermit.’  the  language  is  always  polished,  and 
often  ornamented.  The  best  things  in  it  are  some  neat  turns 
of  moral  and  pathetic  sentiment,  given  with  a  simple  concise¬ 
ness  that  fits  them  for  being  retained  in  the  memory.  As  to 
the  story,  it  has  little  fancy  or  contrivance  to  recommend  it 
We  have  already  seen  that  Goldsmith  possessed  humor, 
and,  exclusively  of  his  comedies,  pieces  professedly  humorous 
form  a  part  of  his  poetical  remains.  His  imitations  of  Swift 
are  happy,  but  they  are  imitations.  His  tale  of  the  ‘  Double 
Transformation’  may  vie  with  those  of  Prior.  His  own  nat¬ 
ural  vein  of  easy  humor  flows  freely  in  his  ‘  Haunch  of 
V enison  ’  and  ‘  Retaliation  ;  ’  the  first,  an  admirable  specimen 
of  a  very  ludicrous  story  made  out  of  a  common  incident  by 
the  help  of  conversation  and  character ;  the  other,  an  orig¬ 
inal  thought,  in  which  his  talent  at  drawing  portraits,  with  a 
mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  comic,  is  most  happily  dis 
played. 


P  O  E  M  S 


VERSES 


ON  THE 

DEATH  OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM 

WRITTEN  BY  COURTNEY  MELMOTH,  ESQ.. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EMINENT  ENGLISH  POETS. 

THE  TEARS  OE  GENIUS. 

The  village  bell  tolls  out  the  note  of  death, 

And  through  the  echoing  air  the  length’ning  sound, 
With  dreadful  pause,  reverberating  deep, 

Spreads  the  sad  tidings  o’er  fair  Auburn’s  vale. 
There,  to  enjoy  the  scenes  her  bard  had  praised 
In  all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  song, 

Genius,  in  pilgrim  garb,  sequester’d  sat, 

And  herded  jocund  with  the  harmless  swains ; 

But  when  she  heard  the  fate-foreboding  knell, 

With  startled  step,  precipitate  and  swift, 

And  look  pathetic,  full  of  dire  presage, 

The  church-way  walk  beside  the  neigb’ring  green. 
Sorrowing  she  sought ;  and  there,  in  black  array > 
Borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the  swains  he  loved, 

She  saw  the  boast  of  Auburn  moved  along. 


56 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


Touch’d  at  the  view,  her  pensive  breast  she  struck. 
And  to  the  cypress,  which  incumbent  hangs, 

With  leaning  slope  and  branch  irregular, 

O’er  the  moss’d  pillars  of  the  sacred  fane, 

The  brier-bound  graves  shadowing  with  funeral  gloom, 
Forlorn  she  hied  ;  and  there  the  crowding  wo 
(Swell’d  by  the  parent)  press’d  on  bleeding  thought, 
Big  ran  the  drops  from  her  maternal  eye, 

Fast  broke  the  bosom -sorrow  from  her  heart, 

And  pale  Distress  sat  sickly  on  her  cheek, 

As  thus  her  plaintive  Elegy  began :  — 

‘  And  must  my  children  all  expire  ? 

Shall  none  be  left  to  strike  the  lyre  ? 

Courts  Death  alone  a  learned  prize  ? 

Falls  his  shafts  only  on  the  wise? 

Can  no  fit  marks  on  earth  be  found, 

From  useless  thousands  swarming  round? 

What  crowding  ciphers  cram  the  land. 

What  hosts  of  victims,  at  command ! 

Yet  shall  the  ingenious  drop  alone  ? 

Shall  Science  grace  the  tyrant’s  throne  ? 

Thou  murd’rer  of  the  tuneful  train, 

I  charge  thee  with  my  children  slain ! 

Scarce  has  the  sun  thrice  urged  his  annual  tour, 

Since  half  my  race  have  felt  thy  barbarous  power 
Sore  hast  thou  thinn’d  each  pleasing  art, 

And  struck  a  muse  with  eveiy  dart ; 

Bard  alter  bard  obey’d  thy  slaughtering  call, 

Till  scarce  a  poet  lives  to  sing  a  brother’s  fall. 

Then  let  a  widow’d  mother  pay 
The  tribute  of  a  parting  lay  ; 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


T*  ^ 

5  < 


Tearful,  inscribe  the  monumental  strain, 

And  speak  aloud  her  feelings  and  her  pain  ! 

‘  And  first,  farewell  to  thee,  my  son,’  she  cried, 

4  Thou  pride  of  Auburn’s  dale  —  sweet  bard,  farewoll 
Long  for  thy  sake  the  peasant’s  tear  shall  flow, 

And  many  a  virgin  bosom  heave  with  woe ; 

For  thee  shall  sorrow  sadden  all  the  scene, 

And  every  pastime  perish  on  the  green  ; 

The  sturdy  farmer  shall  suspend  his  tale, 

The  woodman’s  ballad  shall  no  more  regale, 

No  more  shall  Mirth  each  rustic  sport  inspire, 

But  every  frolic,  every  feat,  shall  tire. 

No  more  the  evening  gambol  shall  delight, 

Nor  moonshine-revels  crown  the  vacant  night ; 

But  groups  of  villagers  (each  joy  forgot) 

Shall  form  a  sad  assembly  round  the  cot. 

Sweet  bard,  farewell !  —  and  farewell,  Auburn’s  bliss, 
The  bashful  lover,  and  the  yielded  kiss : 

The  evening  warble  Philomela  made, 

The  echoing  forest,  and  the  whispering  shade, 

The  winding  brook,  the  bleat  of  brute  content, 

And  the  blithe  voice  that  “  whistled  as  it  went :  ” 

These  shall  no  longer  charm  the  ploughman’s  care, 

But  sighs  shall  fill  the  pauses  of  despair. 

i  Goldsmith,  adieu ;  the  “  book-learn’d  priest  ”  for 
thee 

Shall  now  in  vain  possess  his  festive  glee, 

The  oft-heard  jest  in  vain  he  shall  reveal, 

For  now,  alas  !  the  jest  he  cannot  feel. 

But  ruddy  damsels  o’er  thy  tomb  shall  bend, 

And  conscious  weep  for  their  and  virtue’s  friend ; 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


&8 

The  milkmaid  shall  reject  the  shepherd’s  song, 

And  cease  to  carol  as  she  toils  along : 

All  Auburn  shall  bewail  the  fatal  day, 

When  from  her  fields  their  pride  was  snatch’d  away. 
And  even  the  matron  of  the  cressy.lake, 

In  piteous  plight,  her  palsied  head  shall  shake, 
While  all  adown  the  furrows  of  her  face 
Slow  shall  the  lingering  tears  each  other  trace. 

‘  And,  oh,  my  child !  severer  woes  remain 
To  all  the  houseless  and  unshelter’d  train ! 

Thy  fate  shall  sadden  many  an  humble  guest, 

And  heap  fresh  anguish  on  the  beggar’s  breast  * 

For  dear  wert  thou  to  all  the  sons  of  pain, 

To  all  that  wander,  sorrow  or  complain : 

Dear  to  the  learned,  to  the  simple  dear, 

For  daily  blessing  mark’d  thy  virtuous  year 
The  rich  received  a  moral  from  thy  head, 

And  from  thy  heart  the  stranger  found  a  bed 
Distress  came  always  smiling  from  thy  door  3 
For  God  had  made  thee  agent  to  the  poor, 

Had  form’d  thy  feelings  on  the  noblest  plan. 

To  grace  at  once  the  poet  and  the  man.’ 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  MONODY. 

Dark  as  the  night,  which  now  in  dunnest  robo 
Ascends  her  zenith  o’er  the  silent  globe, 

Sad  Melancholy  wakes,  a  while  to  tread. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  59 

With  solemn  step,  the  mansions  of  the  dead  : 

Led  by  her  hand,  o’er  this  yet  recent  shrine 
I  sorrowing  bend  ;  and  here  essay  to  twine 
The  tributary  wreath  of-laureat  bloom, 

With  artless  hands,  to  deck  a  poet’s  tomb,  — 

The  tomb  where  Goldsmith  sleeps.  Fond  hopes,  adieu 
No  more  your  airy  dreams  shall  mock  my  view ; 

Here  will  I  learn  ambition  to  control, 

And  each  aspiring  passion  of  the  soul : 

E’en  now,  metkinks,  his  well-known  voice  I  hear, 

When  late  he  meditated  flight  from  care, 

When,  as  imagination  fondly  hied 

To  scenes  of  sweet  retirement,  thus  he  cried :  — 

4  Ye  splendid  fabrics,  palaces,  and  towers, 

Where  dissipation  leads  the  giddy  hours, 

Where  pomp,  disease,  and  knavery  reside, 

And  folly  bends  the  knee  to  wealthy  pride ; 

Where  luxury’s  purveyors  learn  to  rise, 

And  worth,  to  want  a  prey,  unfriended  dies ; 

Where  warbling  eunuchs  glitter  in  brocade, 

And  hapless  poets  toil  for  scanty  bread : 

Farewell !  to  other  scenes  I  turn  my  eyes, 

Embosom’d  in  the  vale  where  Auburn  lies  — 

Deserted  Auburn,  those  now  ruin’d  glades, 

Forlorn,  yet  ever  dear  and  honor’d  shades, 

There,  though  the  hamlet  boasts  no  smiling  train, 

Nor  sportful  pastime  circling  on  the  plain, 

No  needy  villains  prowl  around  for  prey, 

No  slanderers,  no  sycophants  betray  ; 

No  gaudy  foplings  scornfully  deride 

The  swain,  whose  humble  pipo  is  all  his  pride, — 


60 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


There  will  I  fly  to  seek  that  soft  repose, 

Which  solitude  contemplative  bestows. 

Yet,  oh,  fond  hope !  perchance  there  still  remains 
One  lingering  friend  behind,  to  bless  the  plains ; 
Some  hermit  of  the  dale,  enshrined  in  ease, 

Long  lost  companion  of  my  youthful  days ; 

With  whose  sweet  converse  in  his  social  bower, 

I  oft  may  chide  away  some  vacant  hour; 

To  whose  pure  sympathy  I  may  impart 
Each  latent  grief  that  labors  at  my  heart, 
Whate’er  I  felt,  and  what  I  saw,  relate, 

The  shoals  of  luxury,  the  wrecks  of  state,  — 
Those  busy  scenes,  where  science  wakes  in  vain. 
In  which  I  shared,  ah !  ne’er  to  share  again. 

But  whence  that  pang  ?  does  nature  now  rebel  ? 
Why  falters  out  my  tongue  the  word  farewell  ? 

Ye  friends  !  who  long  have  witness’d  to  my  toil. 
And  seen  me  ploughing  in  a  thankless  soil, 

Whose  partial  tenderness  hush’d  every  pain, 

Whose  approbation  made  my  bosom  vain,  — 

?  Tis  you  to  whom  my  soul  divided  hies 
With  fond  regret,  and  half  unwilling  flies  ; 

Sighs  forth  her  parting  wishes  to  the  wind, 

And  lingering  leaves  her  better  half  behind. 

Can  I  forget  the  intercourse  I  shared, 

What  friendship  cherish’d,  and  what  zeal  endear’d? 
Alas !  remembrance  still  must  turn  to  you, 

And,  to  my  latest  hour,  protract  the  long  adieu. 
Amid  the  woodlands,  wheresoe’er  I  rove, 

The  plain,  or  secret  covert  of  the  grove, 
Imagination  shall  supply  her  store 


\ 


COMMENDATORY  VERSEb. 


61 


Of  painful  bliss,  and  what  she  can  restore ; 

Shall  strew  each  lonely  path  with  flow’rets  gay, 
And  wide  as  is  her  boundless  empire  stray ; 

On  eagle  pinions  traverse  earth  and  skies, 

And  bid  the  lost  and  distant  objects  rise. 

Here,  where  encircled  o’er  the  sloping  land 
Woods  rise  on  woods,  shall  Aristotle  stand ; 
Lyceum  round  the  godlike  man  rejoice, 

And  bow  with  reverence  to  wisdom’s  voice. 

There,  spreading  oaks  shall  arch  the  vaulted  dome, 
The  champion,  there,  of  liberty  and  Rome, 

In  Attic  eloquence  shall  thunder  laws, 

And  uncorrupted  senates  shout  applause. 

Not  more  ecstatic  visions  rapt  the  soul 
Of  Numa,  when  to  midnight  grots  he  stole, 

And  learnt  his  lore,  from  virtue’s  mouth  refined, 
To  fetter  vice,  and  harmonize  mankind. 

Now  stretch’d  at  ease  beside  some  fav’rite  stream 
Of  beauty  and  enchantment  will  I  dream  ; 

Elysium,  seats  of  arts,  and  laurels  won, 

The  Graces  three,  and  Japhet’s*  fabled  son  ; 
Whilst  Angelo  shall  wave  the  mystic  rod, 

And  see  a  new  creation  wait  his  nod ; 

Prescribe  his  bounds  to  Time’s  remorseless  power, 
And  to  my  arms  my  absent  friends  restore ; 

Place  me  amidst  the  group,  each  well  known  face, 
The  sons  of  science,  lords  of  human  race  ; 

And  as  oblivion  sinks  at  his  command, 

Nature  shall  rise  more  finish’d  from  his  hand. 


*■  Prometheus 

6 


62 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


Thus  some  magician,  fraught  with  potent  ski)], 
Transforms  and  moulds  each  varied  mass  at  will  5 
Calls  animated  forms  of  wondrous  birth, 

Cadmean  offspring,  from  the  teeming  earth, 

Unceres  the  ponderous  tombs,  the  realms  of  night, 
And  calls  their  cold  inhabitants  to  light ; 

Or,  as  lie  traverses  a  dreary  scene, 

Bids  every  sweet  of  nature  there  convene, 

Huge  mountains  skirted  round  with  wavy  woods, 
The  slirub-deck’d  lawns,  and  silver-sprinkled  floods. 
Whilst  flow’rets  spring  around  the  smiling  land, 

And  follow  on  the  traces  of  his  wand. 

‘  Such  prospects,  lovely  Auburn !  then,  be  thine, 
And  what  thou  canst  of  bliss  impart  be  mine  ; 

Amid  thy  humble  shades,  in  tranquil  ease, 

Grant  me  to  pass  the  remnant  of  my  days. 

Unfetter’d  from  the  toil  of  wretched  gain, 

My  raptured  muse  shall  pour  her  noblest  strain, 
Within  her  native  bowers  the  notes  prolong, 

And,  grateful,  meditate  her  latest  song. 

Thus,  as  adown  the  slope  of  life  I  bend, 

And  move,  resign’d,  to  meet  my  latter  end, 

Each  worldly  wish,  eacli  worldly  care  repress’d, 

A  self-approving  heart  alone  possess’d, 

Content,  to  bounteous  Heaven  I  ’ll  leave  the  rest.’ 

Thus  spoke  the  Bard  :  but  not  one  friendly  power 
With  nod  assentive  crown’d  the  parting  hoar ; 

No  eastern  meteor  glared  beneath  the  sky, 

No  dextral  omen  :  Nature  heaved  a  sigh 
Prophetic  of  the  dire,  impending  blow, 

The  presage  of  her  loss,  and  Britain’s  woe. 


68 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 

Already  portion’d,  unrelenting  fate 
Had  made  a  pause  upon  the  number’d  date  ; 

Behind  stood  Death,  too  horrible  for  sight, 

In  darkness  clad,  expectant,  pruned  for  flight ; 

Pleased  at  the  word,  the  shapeless  monster  sped, 

Oil  eager  message  to  the  humble  shed, 

Where,  wrapt  by  soft  poetic  visions  round, 

Sweet  slumbering,  Fancy’s  darling  son  he  found. 

At  his  approach  the  silken  pinion’d  train, 

Affrighted,  mount  aloft,  and  quit  the  brain, 

Which  late  they  fann’d.  Now  other  scenes  than  dales 
Of  woody  pride,  succeed,  or  flowery  vales : 

As  when  a  sudden  tempest  veils  the  sky, 

Before  serene,  and  streaming  lightnings  fly, 

The  prospect  shifts,  and  pitchy  volumes  roll 
Along  the  drear  expanse,  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Terrific  horrors  all  the  void  invest, 

Whilst  the  arch  spectre  issues  forth  confest. 

The  Bard  beholds  him  beckon  to  the  tomb 
Of  yawning  night,  eternity’s  dread  womb  ; 

In  vain  attempts  to  fly,  th’  impassive  air 
Retards  his  steps,  and  yields  him  to  despair ; 

He  feels  a  gripe  that  thrills  through  every  vein, 

And  panting  struggles  in  the  fatal  chain. 

Here  paused  the  fell  destroyer,  to  survey 
The  pride,  the  boast  of  man,  his  destined  prey  ,* 
Prepared  to  strike,  he  pois’d  aloft  the  dart, 

And  plunged  the  steel  in  Virtue’s  bleeding  heart ; 
Abhorrent,  back  the  springs  of  life  rebound, 

And  leave  on  Nature’s  .face  a  ghastly  wound, 

A  wound  enroll’d  among  Britannia’s  woes, 


64 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


That  ages  jet  to  follow  cannot  close. 

O  Goldsmith  !  how  shall  Sorrow  now  essay 
To  murmur  out  her  slow,  incondite  lay  ? 

In  what  sad  accents  mourn  the  luckless  hour, 
That  yielded  thee  to  unrelenting  power ; 

Thee,  the  proud  boast  of  all  the  tuneful  train 
That  sweep  the  lyre,  or  swell  the  polish’d  strain  ? 
Much-honored  Bard  !  if  my  untutor’d  verse 
Could  pay  a  tribute  worthy  of  thy  hearse, 

With  fearless  hands  I’d  build  the  fane  of  praise. 
And  boldly  strew  the  never-fading  bays. 

But,  ah  !  with  thee  my  guardian  genius  fled. 

And  pillow’d  in  thy  tomb  his  silent  head : 

Pain’d  Memory  alone  behind  remains, 

And  pensive  stalks  the  solitary  plains, 

Rich  in  her  sorrows  ;  honors  without  art 
She  pays  in  tears  redundant  from  the  heart. 

And  say,  what  boots  it  o’er  thy  hallow’d  dust 
To  heap  the  graven  pile,  or  laurell’d  bust ; 

Since  by  thy  hands  already  raised  on  high, 

We  see  a  fabric  tow’ring  to  the  sky ; 

Where,  hand  in  hand  with  Time,  the  sacred  lore 
Shall  travel  on,  till  Nature  is  no  more  ? 


LINES  BY  W.  WOTTY. 

Adieu,  sweet  Bard !  to  each  fine  feeling  true. 
Thy  virtues  many,  and  thy  foibles  few,  — 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


65 


Tliose  form’d  to  charm  e’en  vicious  minds,  and  these 
With  harmless  mirth  the  social  soul  to  please. 
Another’s  woe  thy  heart  could  always  melt ; 

None  gave  more  free,  for  none  more  deeply  felt. 
Sweet  Bard,  adieu  !  thy  own  harmonious  lays 
Have  sculptured  out  thy  monument  of  praise 
Yes,  these  survive  to  Time’s  remotest  day ; 

While  drops  the  bust,  and  boastful  tombs  decay. 
Reader,  if  number’d  in  the  Muse’s  train, 

Go,  tune  the  lyre,  and  imitate  his  strain ; 

But,  if  no  poet  thou,  reverse  the  plan, 

Depart  in  peace,  and  imitate  the  man. 


THE  TRAVELLER; 


OR, 

A  PROSPECT  OE  SOCIETY. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THE  REY.  HENRY  GOLDSMITH. 

Dear  Sir, — I  am  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  us 
can  acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  dedicar 
tion  ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to  prefix  your 
name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  decline  giving  with  your 
own.  But  as  a  part  of  this  poem  was  formerly  written  to  you 
from  Switzerland,  the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  on¬ 
ly  inscribed  to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many 
parts  of  it,  when  the  reader  understands,  that  it  is  addressed 
to  a  man  who,  despising  fame  and  fortune,  has  retired  early 
to  happiness  and  obscurity,  with  an  income  of  forty  pounds 
a-year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of  your  hum¬ 
ble  choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a  sacred  office,  where 
the  harvest  is  great,  and  the  laborers  are  but  few  ;  while  you 
have  left  the  field  of  ambition,  where  the  laborers  are  many 
and  the  harvest  not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds 
of  ambition  —  what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times,  from 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


67 


different  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the  divisions  of  party 
—  that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among  unpolished  nar 
tions  ;  but  in  a  country  verging  to  the  extremes  of  refinement, 
painting  and  music  come  in  for  a  share.  As  these  offer  the 
feeble  mine  a  less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first  rival 
poetry,  and  at  length  supplant  her ;  they  engross  all  that  fa¬ 
vor  once  shown  to  her,  and  though  but  youngei  sisters,  seize 
upon  the  elder’s  birthright. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the  powerful,  it 
is  still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mistaken  efforts  of  the 
learned  to  improve  it.  What  criticisms  have  we  not  heard 
of  late  in  favor  of  blank  verse  and  Pindaric  odes,  choruses, 
anapests  and  iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  negligence  ! 
Every  absurdity  has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it ;  and  as  ho 
is  generally  much  in  the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to  say 
for  error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dangerous,  — 
I  mean  party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the  judgment,  and  des¬ 
troys  the  taste.  When  the  mind  is  once  infected  with  this 
disease,  it  can  only  find  pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  in¬ 
crease  the  distemper.  Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists 
from  pursuing  man  after  having  once  preyed  upon  human 
flesh,  the  reader,  who  has  once  gratified  his  appetite  with  cal¬ 
umny,  makes  ever  after  the  most  agreeable  feast  upon  mur¬ 
dered  reputation.  Such  readers  generally  admire  some  half 
witted  thing,  who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man,  having 
lost  the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignify  with  the 
name  of  poet :  his  tawdry  lampoons  are  called  satires  ;  his 
turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and  his  frenzy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has  neither  abuse, 


68 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  am  1 
Bolieitous  to  know.  My  aims  are  right.  Without  espousing 
the  cause  of  any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the 
rage  of  all.  I  have  endeavored  to  shew  that  there  may  be 
equal  happiness  in  states  that  are  differently  governed  from 
our  own  ;  that  every  state  has  a  particular  principle  of  happi¬ 
ness,  and  that  this  principle  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mis¬ 
chievous  excess.  There  are  few  can  judge  better  than  your¬ 
self  how  far  these  positions  are  illustrated  in  this  poem.  I  am, 
dear  Sir,  youi  moat  affectionate  brother, 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow — 

Or  by  the  lazy  Scliekl,  or  wandering  Po. — p.  (39. 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 

Or  by  the  lazy  Sheld,  or  wandering  Po, 

Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door  5 
Or  where  Campania’s  plain  forsaken  lies, 

A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies : 

Where’er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 

My  heart  untravell’d  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 

Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend ! 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ! 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair  ! 

I  HBlest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown’d, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale  ; 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

_And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good  1 


70 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


.But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 

My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent,  and  care  ; 
ImpelTd,  wdth  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view 
That  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 

Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies : 

My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 

And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  owTn. 

E’en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 

I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend  ; 

And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm’s  career, 

Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 

The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd’s  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  Creation’s  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 

Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 

That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain  ? 

Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 

These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendor  crown’d 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round ; 

Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale  ; 

Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale ; 

For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine, 

Creation’s  heir,  the  world  —  the  world  is  mine  ! 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store. 

Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o’er, 

Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill. 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


71 


ret  still  lie  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still. 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

I'o  see  the  sum  of  human  bliss  so  small : 

And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign’d, 

VYhere  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 

The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own  ; 

Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 

And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 

The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  Line, 

Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 

Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 

And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 

Such  is  the  patriot’s  boast  where’er  we  roam, 

His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 

And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 

Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 

As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given,  t 

To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even 
Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 

Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labor’s  earnest  call  ; 

With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Tdra’s  cliffs  as  Arno’s  shelvy  side 


72 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of  down. 

From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent,- — 
Wealth,  commerce,  honor,  liberty,  content. 

Yet  these  each  other’s  power  so  strong  contest, 

That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 

Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  fails* 
And  honor  sinks,  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state,  to  one  loved  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 

Each  to  the  favorite  happiness  attends, 

And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends ; 

Till  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 

This  Favorite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 

And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies  5 
Here,  for  a  while,  my  proper  cares  resign’d, 

Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 

Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 

That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 

Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 

Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain’s  side, 

Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 

While  oft  some  temple’s  mouldering  tops  between, 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature’s  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 

The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest : 

Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found, 

That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  5 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


73 


Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die ; 

These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 

Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter’s  toil ; 

While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand. 

To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 

And  sensual  bliss  is  all  this  nation  knows. 

In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 

Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  : 
Though  poor,  luxurious  ;  though  submissive,  vain 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ;  zealous,  yet  untrue ! 

And  e’en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  : 

For  wealth  was  theirs ;  not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourish’d  through  the  state 
At  her  command  the  palace  learn’d  to  rise, 

Again  the  long  fall’n  column  sought  the  skies  ; 

The  canvas  glow’d  beyond  e’en  nature  warm, 

The  pregnant  quarry  teem’d  with  human  form : 

Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display’d  her  sail : 

While  nought  remain’d,  of  all  that  riches  gave, 

But  towns  unmann’d,  and  lords  without  a  slave : 

And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 

Ite  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride ; 

7 


74 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long  fall’n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 

Here  may  be  seen  in  bloodless  pomp  array’d, 

The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade  : 
Processions  form’d  for  piety  and  love, 

A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 

By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil’d 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child : 

Each  nobler  aim  repress’d  by  long  control, 

Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 

While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 

In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind ; 

As  in  those  dooms  where  Csesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time,  and  tottering  in  decay, 

There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 

The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  ; 

And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them  !  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 

Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread. 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread : 

No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 

But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword  ; 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 

But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May ; 

No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain’s  breast, 

But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 

Though  poor  the  peasant’s  hut,  his  feast  though  small 


THIS  TRAVELLER. 


75 


He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 

Nc  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful,  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  vent’rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

At  night  returning,  every  labor  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 

Smiles  by  a  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children’s  looks  that  brighten  to  the  blaze, 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  ; 

And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 

With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
fmprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 

And  e’en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 

Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 

And  dear  that  hill  that  lifts  him  to  the  storms; 

And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 

Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother’s  breast. 

So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind’s  roar, 

But  biud  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 


76 


THE  TRAVELLER 


Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign’d  . 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined ;  * 

Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, — 

If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few  ; 

For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast, 

Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest. 

Hence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flics, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 

Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 

To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 

Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  lire, 
iS'or  quench’d  by  want,  norfann’d  by  strong  desire 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a-yeai, 

In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  lire, 
fill,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow, — 

Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low  ; 

For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter’d,  unimproved  the  manners  run ; 

And  love’s  and  friendship’s  finely  pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o’er  the  mountain’s  breast 
May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals, —  such  as  play 
Through  life’s  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm  the  way, 
These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign. 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


i 


I  turn;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 

Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 

With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshen’d  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr  flew ; 

And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  flatt’ring  still, 

But  mock’d  all  tune,  and  marr’d  the  dancer’s  skill ; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze  5 

And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill’d  in  gestic  lore, 

Has  frisk’d  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display  5 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away : 

Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 

For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here : 

Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 

Or  e’en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 

Here  passes  current  ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 

It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land ; 

From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 

And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise : 

They  please,  are  pleased ;  they  give  to  get  esteem  3 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 

It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 

For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought : 


7* 


78 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 

Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another’s  breast. 

Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 

Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  Vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 

And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace ; 
Here  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 

To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a-year : 

The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws3 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom’d  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  laud, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 

Lift  the  tall  rampire’s  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow, 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore  ; 
While  the  pent  Ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile, 

Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  5 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom’d  vale, 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 

Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reion. 

And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 


A 


THE  TRAVELLER.  79 

With  all  those  ills  superflous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  display’d.  Their  much-loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear ; 

Even  liberty  itself  is  barter’d  here  ; 

At  gold’s  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys. 

A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves, 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonorable  graves, 

And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old  1 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold, 

War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow ; 

How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 

And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 

And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide. 

There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 

There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 

Creation’s  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 

Extremes  are  only  in  the  mastre  s  mind  ! 

Stern  o’er  each  bosom  Reason  holds  her  state, 

With  daring  aims  irregularly  great, 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by  ; 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 

By  forms  unfashion’d,  fresh  from  nature’s  bind. 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 

True  to  imagined  right  above  control,  — 


80 


THE  TRAVELLER 


While  e’en  ilie  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here, 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear ! 

Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy  ; 

But,  fostered  e’en  by  Freedom,  ills  annoy  ; 

That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 

Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie ; 

The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 

All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown ; 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 

Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell’d  ; 
Ferments  arise,  imprison’d  factions  roar, 

Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore  ; 

Till,  overwrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motion  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.  As  Nature’s  ties  decay, 

As  duty,  love,  and  honor  fail  to  sway, 

Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 

Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 

And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 

Till  time  may  come,  when  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where  kings  have  toil’d,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 

And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonor’d  die. 

But  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom’s  ills  I  stats, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  gTeat : 

Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


31 


Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire! 

And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble’s  rage,  and  tyrant’s  angry  steel ; 

Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favor’s  fostering  sun  — 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure ! 

I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure  : 

For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 

That  those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 
And  all  that  Freedom’s  highest  aims  can  reach. 

Is  but  to  lay  proportion’d  loads  on  each. 

Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion’d  grow, 

Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh,  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires  ! 

Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 

Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms : 

But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own  ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  asrree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free, 

Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 

Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law  ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home,  — 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation,  start, 

Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 

1  ill,  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 

I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour, 

U  her  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 


82 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


And  thus,  polluting  honor  in  its  source, 

Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain’s  peopled  shore. 

Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ? 

Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 

Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste? 

Seen  Opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 

Lead  stern  Depopulation  in  her  train, 

And  over  lields,  where  scatter’d  hamlets  rose, 

In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 

Have  we  not  seen,  at  Pleasure’s  lordly  call, 

The  smiling,  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 

Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay’d, 

The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 

Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 

To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main, 

Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 

And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundering  sound  ? 

E’en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous  ways. 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 

And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murderous  aim  ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies. 

And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 

The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe, 

To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 

Casts  a  long  look  where  England’s  glories  shine, 

And  bids  his  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
Tint  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind: 

Why  have  I  stray  d  from  pleasure  and  repose, 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


83 


To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 

In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 

How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 

That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  ? 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign’d, 

Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 

With  secret  course  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 

The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 

Luke’s  iron  crown,  and  Damien’s  bed  of  steel, 

To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own 


THK 


DESERTED  VILLAGE 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 

Dear  Sir.  —  I  can  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address 
of  this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation,  or  to  establish 
my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration,  as  I  am 
ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel ;  and  1 
may  lose  much  by  the  severity  of  your  judgment,  as  few 
have  a  juster  taste  in  poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest, 
therefore,  aside,  to  which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  1 
must  be  indulged  at  present  in  following  my  affections.  The 
only  dedication  I  ever  made,  was  to  my  brother,  because  1 
loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He  is  since  dead. 
Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  Poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versification  and 
mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  1  do  not  pretend  to 
inquire  :  but  I  know  you  will  object  (and,  indeed,  several  of 
our  best  and  wisest  friends  concur  in  the  opinion),  that  the 
depopulation  it  deplores  is  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  the  dis- 
o.'ders  it  laments  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  poet’s  own  im¬ 
agination.  To  this  I  can  scarcely  make  any  other  answer, 
than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I  have  written  ;  that  I 
have  taken  all  possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions,  for 
the^e  four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I  allege 

I 


85 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

and  that  all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe 
those  miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt  to  display.  But 
this  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  inquiry  whether  the 
country  be  depopulating  or  not :  the  discussion  would  take 
up  much  room,  and  I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indif¬ 
ferent  politician,  to  tire  the  reader  with  a  long  preface,  when 
I  want  his  unfatigued  attention  to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I  inveigh 
against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries ;  and  here  also  I  expect 
the  shout  of  modern  politicians  against  me.  For  twenty  or 
thirty  years  past,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury  as 
one  of  the  greatest  national  advantages  ;  and  all  the  wisdom 
of  antiquity  in  that  particular  as  erroneous.  Still,  however, 
I  must  remain  a  professed  ancient  on  that  head,  and  continue 
to  think  those  luxuries  prejudicial  to  states  by  which  so  many 
vices  are  introduced,  and  so  many  kingdoms  have  been  un¬ 
done.  Indeed,  so  much  has  been  poured  out  of  late  on  the 
other  side  of  the  question,  that  merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty 
and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish  to  be  in  the  right. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

your  sincere  friend,  and  ardent  admirer, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  * 


Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheer’d  the  laboring  swinn, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer’s  lingering  blooms  delay’d  : 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loiter’d  o’er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endear’d  each  scene  ! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  shelter’d  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

Hie  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

,  -h  or  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 

*  The  locality  of  this  poem  is  supposed  to  be  Lissoy,  near 
Ballymahan,  where  the-  poet’s  brother  Henry  had  his  living.  As 
usual  in  such  cases,  the  place  afterwards  became  the  fashionabj 
resort  of  poetical  pilgrims,  and  paid  the  customary  penalty  of  fr  > 
nishing  relics  for  the  curious.  The  hawthorn  bush  has  been  con¬ 
verted  into  snuff-boxes,  and  now  adorns  the  cabinets  of  poetical 
virtuosi. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAOE. 


87 


When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free,  . 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey’d  ; 

A  nd  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o’er  the  ground, 

And  slights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round  *, 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter’d  round  the  place  ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove : 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports,  like  these 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e’en  toil  to  please  ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed. 
These  were  thy  charms  —  but  all  these  charms  are  fled 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ! 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant’s  hand  is  seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 

And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  the  grassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way* 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries  : 


88 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Sunk  are  thy  bovvers  in  shapless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o’ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler’s  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  ; 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 

A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country’s  pride, 

When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England’s  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain’d  its  man  : 
b  or  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  ; 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 

And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter’d  :  trade’s  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter’d  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose. 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  ask’d  but  little  room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten’d  all  the  green, _ 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 

Ihy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant’s  power. 

Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


89 


Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share*  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 

To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 

I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends  us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  shew  my  book-learn’d  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw  ; 

And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 

Here  to  return  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life’s  decline, 
Retreat  from  cares,  that  never  must  be  mine  ! 

How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these, 

A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try- 
And,  since  ’tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend  ; 

8* 


90 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening’s  close, 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 

There,  as  I  past  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 

The  mingling  notes  came  soften’d  from  below ; 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 

The  sober  herd  that  low’d  to  meet  their  young ; 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’er  the  pool, 

The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 

The  watch-dog’s  voice  that  bay’d  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind, 

These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 

And  fill’d  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail ; 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 

No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 

But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled  * 

All  but  yon  widow’d,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plasliy  spring  ; 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


91 


The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a-year : 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wish’d  to  change,  his  place 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 

By  doctrines  fashion’d  to  the  varying  hour ; 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn’d  to  prize, 

More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

Ilis  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
lie  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved ‘their  pain  : 

The  long-remember’d  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruin’d  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

Claim’d  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow’d ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk’d  the  night  away, 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder’d  his  crutch,  and  show’d  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn’d  to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe : 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  fautls  to  scan, 

Ilis  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 

And  e’en  his  failings  loan’d  to  virtue’s  side  ; 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watch’d  and  wept,  he  pray’d  and  felt,  for  all; 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
lie  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 


92 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay’d, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 

Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper’d  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 

His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double  sway, 

And  fools  who  came  to  scoff,  remain’d  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 

E’en  children  follow’d,  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck’d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile 
His  ready  smile  a  parent’s  warmth  express’d ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress’d  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom’d  furze,  unprofitably  gay, 

There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 

I  knew  him  wrell,  and  every  truant  knew : 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn’d  to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 

Full  well  they  laugh’d,  with  countefeited  glee. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


r^3 


At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convey’d  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown’d : 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 

’T  was  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e’en  the  story  ran  —  that  he  could  gauge  : 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own’d  his  skill, 

For  e’en  though  vanquish’d,  he  could  argue  still; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund’ring  sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.  The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph’d,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil,  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk’d  with  looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  sjoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place  : 

The  white-wash’d  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 

The  varnish’d  clock  that  click’d  behind  the  door ; 

The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  draws  by  day ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 


94 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill’d  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay ; 
While  broken  tea  cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o’er  tiie  chimney,  glisten’d  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors!  Could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart : 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s  tale, 

No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  prevail ; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond’rous  strength,  and  learn  to  hear 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway 
Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined: 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array’d,  — ■ 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 

And,  e’en  while  fashion’s  brightest  arts  decoy, 


THE  DESEfiTED  VILLAGE. 


95 


The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man’s  joys  increase,  the  poor’s  decay, 

'T  is  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  Ifeighted  ore, 

And  shouting  Polly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 

Hoards,  e’en  beyond  the  miser’s  wish,  abound, 

And  rich  men  tlock  from  all  the  world  around. 

Yet  count  our  gains  :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss :  the  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park’s  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  : 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 

Has  robb’d  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  Hies, 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : — 

While  thus  the  land,  adorn’d  for  pleasure  all, 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  its  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn’d  and  plain, 

Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 

Slights  every  borrow’d  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past  —  for  charms  are  frail _ 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  tail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress ; 


96 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd  ; 

In  nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  array’d  : 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  liis  humble  band  ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms  — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 

To  ’scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ?  • 

If  to  some  common’s  fenceless  limits  stray’d, 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 

And  e’en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 

To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures’  wo. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  his  sickly  trade ; 

Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  deck’d,  admits  the  gorgeous  train ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square. 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e’er  annoy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  —  Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 


s 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE# 


97 


Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies  : 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest,  , 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest : 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn : 

Now  lost  to  all  —  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer’s  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinch’d  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 

E’en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 

At  proud  men’s  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 

Ah,  no.  To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 

Where  half  the  convex-world  intrudes  between, 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go. 

Where  wild  Altama  *  murmurs  to  their  wo. 

F ar  different  there  from  all  that  charm’d  before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown’d. 

W  here  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 

*  The  Altama  (  or  Altamaha  )  is  a  river  in  the  province  of 
Georgia,  United  States. 


9 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE, 


98 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 

And  savage  men,  more  murd’rous  still  than  they ; 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 

The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy -vested  green, 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 

That  oidy  shelter’d  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloom’d  that  parting  day 
That  call’d  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 

When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 

Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  loudly  look’d  their  last, 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish’d  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 

And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 

Return’d  and  wept,  and  still  return’d  to  weep  ! 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others’  wo; 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wish’d  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave  : 

1 1  is  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
l'he  fond  rom panion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover’s  for  her  father’s  arms: 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  I  dost  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

\nd  kiss’d  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tcar? 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear, 

W  liilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 


s 


Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day 
I  hat  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away. _ p.  08. 


TIIE  DESERTED  VILLAGE, 


9S> 


O  luxury  !  tliou  curst  by  Heaven’s  decree, 

How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  1 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 

Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 

Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own  : 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  wo ; 

Till,  sapp’d  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound 
Down,  Down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E’en  now  t  he  devastation  is  begun, 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 

E’en  now,  methinks,  sis  pondering  here  i  stand, 

I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  i laps  with  every  gale, 

Downward  they  move  a  melancholy  band, 

Pass  from  the  shore  and  darken  all  the  strand 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 

And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there  > 

And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 

And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 

Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade  ; 

Tjntit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame. 

To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 

Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 

That  found’st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep’st  me  so ; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 


100 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell  ;  and  oh !  where’er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno’s  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca’s  side, 
Whether  wliere  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigors  of  th’  inclement  clime  ; 

Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 

That  trade’s  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labor’d  mole  away  ; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


THE  HERMIT? 


A  BALLAD. 


Thf  following  letter,  addressed  to  the  printer  of  the  St.  James’s 
Chronicle,  appeared  in  that  paper  in  June,  1767. 

Sir, _ As  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as  newspaper 

controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as  con¬ 
cise  as  possible  in  informing  a  correspondent  of  yours,  that  I 
recommended  Blainville’s  Travels,  because  I  thought  the  book 
was  a  good  one,  and  I  think  so  still.  I  said  I  was  told  bj  the 
bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published  ;  but  in  that,  it  seems, 
I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not  extensive  enough 
to  set  me  right 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having  taken  a 
ballad  I  published  some  time  ago,  from  one*  by  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resemblance  be¬ 
tween  the  two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad 
is  taken  from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years  ago  ; 
and  he  (as  we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles  at  best) 
told  me  with  his  usual  good  humor,  the  next  time  I  saw  him, 
that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of  Shak- 
speare  into  a  ballad  of  his  own.  He  then  read  me  his  little  Cen- 

*  Friar  of  Orders  Gray.  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry ,  vol.  i,  book 
fc.  No.  17.  u* 


102 


THE  HERMIT. 


to,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  and  I  highly  approved  it.  Such  petty  an* 
ecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely  worth  printing ;  and,  were  it  not 
for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  correspondents,  the 
public  should  never  have  known  that  he  owes  me  the  hint 
of  his  ballad,  or  that  lam  obliged  to  hi&  frendship  and  learning 
for  communications  of  a  much  more  important  nature.— i 
am,  Sir,  yours,  etc  Oliver  Goldsmith, 


THE  HE  RM1T, 


Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 
And  guide  my  lonely  way, 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 
Seem  length’ning  as  I  go/ 

‘Forbear,  my  son,’  the  Hermit  cries, 

‘  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  Faithless  phantom  dies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

‘  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good  will. 

‘  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  6hare 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 


104 


♦ 


THE  HERMIT. 

*  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 
To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 

Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them : 

4  But  from  the  mountain’s  grass y  side. 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring  ; 

A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.’ 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends- 

✓ 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure, 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 

A  refuge  to  the  neighb’ring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a  master’s  care ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  Hermit  trimm’d  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer’d  his  pensive  guest : 


THE  HERMIT. 


And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  press’d  and  smiled ; 

And,  skill’d  in  legendary  lore. 

The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 

The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth. 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  oppress’d  : 

And,  ‘  Whence  unhappy  youth,’  he  cried, 
4  The  sorrow's  of  thy  breast  ? 

4  From  better  habitations  spurn’d, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn’d, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

4  Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 

Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things. 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

4  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 

A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weeD  ? 

A 


1 06 


THE  HERMIT. 


I 


And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one’s  jest ; 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle’s  nest. 

4  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush^ 
And  spurn  the  sex,’  he  said  ; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray’d. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view ; 

Like  colors  o’er  the  morning  skies. 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms : 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess’d, 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

And,  ‘  Ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude  - — 

A  wretch  forlorn,’  she  cried ; 

c  Whose  feet  unhallow’d  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

4  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 

Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  : 

And  all  his  wealth  was  mark’d  as  mine. 
He  had  but  only  me. 


s 


THE  HERMIT. 


107 


To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber’d  suitors  came, 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feign’d,  a  flame. 

‘  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow’d.. 

But  never  talk’d  of  love. 

*  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 

And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 

He  caroll’d  lays  of  love, 

His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove.  * 

The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

‘  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  wo  to  me, 

Their  constancy  was  mine. 

*  This  stanza  was  preserved  by  Richard  Archdalo,  Esq.,  a  mem 
bcr  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  to  whom  it  was  giv^n  by  Goldsmith 
and  was  first  inserted  after  the  author’o  death. 


108 


THE  HERMIT. 


‘  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 
Importunate  and  vain ; 

And  while  his  passion  touch’d  my  heart 
I  triumph’d  in  his  pain ; 

‘  Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 

And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

4  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

‘  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid. 

I’ll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 

’Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.’ 

Forbid  it,  Heaven !  ’  the  Hermit  cried. 
And  clasp’d  her  to  his  breast ; 

The  wondering  fair  one  turn’d  to  chide 
*  Twas  Edwin’s  self  that  press’d  I 

*  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 

Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

‘  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  hetrt, 
And  every  care  resign : 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 

My  life  —  my  all  that’s  mine 


“Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear — 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see.” — p.  108, 


THE  HERMIT. 


109 


No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part 
W  e’ll  live  and  love  so  true, 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin’s  too. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON  * 


A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LORD  CLARE. 

Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter 
Ne’er  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter. 

The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 

The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy ; 

Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  Help 
regretting 

To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating: 

I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chamber  to  place  it  in  view 
To  he  shewn  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu  ; 

As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so, 

One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 

But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 
They’d  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 

But  hold  —  let  me  pause  —  don’t  I  hear  you  pronounce, 
This  tale  of  the  bacon’s  a  damnable  bounce  ? 

Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce  —  sure  a  poet  may  try, 

By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 

But,  my  lord,  it’s  no  bounce :  I  protest,  in  my  turn, 

*  The  description  of  the  dinner  party  in  this  poem  is  imitated 
from  Boileau’s  fourth  Satire.  Boileau  himself  took  the  hint  froi3 
Horace,  Lib.  i'i.  Sat.  8,  which  has  also  been  imitated  by  Itegnier 
Sat.  10.  * 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 


Ill 


It’s  a  truth,  and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn  * 

To  go  on  with  my  tale :  as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 

I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch, 

So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest, 

To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 

Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose  — 
*Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Munroe’s ; 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 

With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the 
when. 

There’s  II— d,  and  C— y,  and  II— rth,  and  H— ff, 

I  think  they  love  venison  —  I  know  they  love  beef; 
There’s  my  countryman,  Higgins  —  oh,  let  him  alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone  : 

But,  hang  it !  to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat 
Your  very  good  mutton’s  a  very  good  treat ; 

Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might  hurt ; 

It’s  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a  shirt. 

While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 

An  acquaintance  —  a  friend,  as  he  calld  himself 
enter’d ; 

An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 

And  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  venison  and  me, — 

‘  What  have  you  got  here  ?  —  Why,  this  is  good  eating 
Your  own,  I  suppose  —  or  is  it  in  waiting  ?  ’ 
i  Why,  whose  should  it  be  ?  ’  cried  I,  with  a  flounce, 

« X  get  these  things  often’  —  but  that  was  a  bounce  : 
Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation. 
Are  pleased  to  be  kind  —  but  I  hate  ostentation. 


*  Lord  Clare’s  nephew 


112 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 


<  If  that  be  the  case,  then,’  cried  he,  very  gay, 

I’m  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way : 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me  ; 

No  words  —  I  insist  on’t  —  precisely  at  three ; 

We’ll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  —  all  the  wits  will  be 
there : 

My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I’d  ask  my  Lord  Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on’t,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 

We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner. 

What  say  you  —  a  pasty  ?  it  shall,  and  it  must, 

And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 

Here,  porter  —  this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end : 

No  stirring,  I  beg  —  my  dear  friend,  —  my  dear  friend 
Thus,  snatching  his  hat,  he  brush’d  off  like  the  wind, 

And  the  porter  and  eatables  follow’d  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 

And  ‘  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself ;  ’  * 

Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty, 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 

Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life, 

Though  clogg’d  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 

So  next  day,  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 

I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine, 

(A  chair-lumbered  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine), 

My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come ; 

1  For  1  knew  it,’  he  cried,  ‘both  eternally  fail, 

*  See  the  letters  that  passed  between  his  Koyal  Highness  Henry 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  Lady  Grosvcnor.  12mo.  1769. 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 


113 


The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t’other  with  Thralo:  * 
But  no  matter,  I’ll  warrant  we’ll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 

The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew : 

They’re  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you : 

The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge ; 
Some  thinks  he  writes  Cinna  —  he  owns  to  Panurge.’ 
While  thus  he  described  them,  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  enter’d,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came 
At  the  top,  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen  ; 

At  the  bottom,  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 

At  the  sides,  there  was  spinage,  and  pudding  made  hot  5 
In  the  middle,  a  place  where  the  pasty  —  was  not. 

Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it’s  my  utter  aversion, 

And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian ; 

So  there  I  sat  stuck  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 

While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round  : 

But  what  vex’d  me  most  was  that  d - ’  d  Scottish 

rogue, 

With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles,  and  his 
brogue ; 

And,  ‘  Madam,’  quoth  he,  ‘  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 

A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  : 

Pray,  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst. 

But  I’ve  ate  of  your  tripe  till  I’m  ready  to  burst.’ 

‘  The  tripe  !  ’  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate  cheek, 

I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week : 

1  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small  •, 

*  An  eminent  London  brewer,  M.  P.  for  the  borough  of  South 
wark,  at  whoso  table  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  frequent  guest. 


10* 


114 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 


But  your  friend  there,  the  Doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all 
‘  O  ho  !  ’  quoth  my  friend,  ‘  he’ll  come  on  in  a  trice. 

He’s  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that’s  nice : 

There’s  a  pasty.’  — ‘  A  pasty  !  ’  repeated  the  Jew, 

‘  I  don’t  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for’t  too.’ 

4  What  the  deil  mon,  a  pasty !  ’  re-echoed  the  Scot, 

‘  Though  splitting,  I’ll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that.’ 

‘We’ll  all  keep  a  corner,’  the  lady  cried  out; 

‘  We’ll  all  keep  a  corner,’  was  echo’d  about. 

While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay’d, 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter’d  the  maid : 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 

Waked  Priam,  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 

But  we  quickly  found  out  —  for  who  could  mistake  her  ?  — 
That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker  t 
And  so  it  fell  out ;  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 

Sad  Philomel  thus  —  but  let  similes  drop  — 

And  now  that  I  think  on’t,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it’s  but  labor  misplaced, 

To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste : 

You’ve  got  an  odd  something  —  a  kind  of  discerning, 

A  relish  —  a  taste  —  sicken’d  over  by  learning  ; 

At  least  it’s  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 

That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that’s  your  own. 

So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 

You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this 


RETALIATION. 


Dr.  Goldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dinod  at  the 
St.  James’s  Coffeehouse.  One  day,  it  was  proj.osed  to  write 
epitaphs  on  him.  His  country,  dialect,  and  person,  furnished 
subjects  of  witticism.  lie  was  called  on  for  Retaliation ,  and,  at 
their  next  meeting,  produced  the  following  poem. 

Of  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited, 

Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united ; 

If  our  landlord  * * * §  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 

Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the  best  dish ; 
Our  Dean  t  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains  ; 
Our  Burke  \  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  ol  brains  ; 
Our  Will  §  shall  be  wild-fowl  of  excellent  flavor, 

And  Dick  ||  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savor; 

*  The  master  of  the  St.  James’s  Cotfeehouse,  where  the  Doctoi 
and  the  friends  he  has  characterized  in  this  poem,  occasionally 
dined. 

t  Doctor  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry,  in  Ireland,  afterwards  Bish¬ 
op  of  Ivillaloe. 

\  The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 

§  Mr.  William  Burke,  formerly  secretary  to  General  Conway 
and  member  for  Bcdwin. 

II Mr  Richard  Burke,  collector  of  Granada. 


116 


RETALIATION. 


Qur  Cumberland’s  * * * §  sweetbread  its  plaee  shall  obtain, 
And  Douglas  f  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  ; 

Our  Garrick’s  J  a  salad,  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree : 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 

That  Ridge  §  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  ||  is  lamb ; 

That  Hickey’s  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 

At  a  dinner  so  various  —  at  such  a  repast, 

Who’d  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last? 

Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I’m  able, 

Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 

Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 

Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 

Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 
mirth : 

If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt  — 

At  least,  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  ’em  out ; 

Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can’t  be  denied  ’em. 

That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  ’em. 

*  Mr.  Richard  Cumberland,  author  of  The  West  Indian ,  Th& 
Jew ,  and  other  dramatic  works. 

t  Doctor  Douglas,  Canon  of  Windsor,  and  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Salisbury,  was  himself  a  natvie  of  Scotland,  and  obtained  con¬ 
siderable  reputation  by  his  detection  of  the  forgeries  of  his  coun¬ 
trymen,  Lauder  and  Bower. 

$  David  Garrick,  Esq. 

§  Counsellor  John  Ridge,  a  gentleman  belonging  to  the  Irish 
bar. 

||  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

^  An  eminent  attorney. 


RETALIATION. 


117 


Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 

Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow’d  his  mind, 

And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind : 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat, 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townsliend  *  to  lend  him  a  vote  ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 

And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 
dining :  f 

Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 

Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 

For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge  disobedient ; 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 

In  short,  ’twas  his  fate,  unemploy’d  or  in  place,  sir, 

To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne’er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in't : 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 

His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong  ; 

Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 

The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home. 

Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  :  alas  !  he  had  none  ; 

What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

*  Mr.  T.  Townshend,  member  for  Whitchurch,  afterwards  Lord 
Sydney. 

t  Mr.  Burke’s  speeches  in  Parliament,  though  distinguished  by 
all  the  force  of  reasoning  and  eloquence  of  their  highly-gifted 
author,  were  not  always  listened  to  witli  patience  by  his  brother 
members,  who  not  unfrequently  took  the  opportunity  of  retiring 
to  dinner  when  lie  rose  to  speak.  To  this  circumstance,  which 
procured  ^or  the  orator  the  sobriquet  of  the  Dinner  allusion  is 
here  made. 


118 


RETALIATION. 


Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at ; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  bo  quiet ! 

What  spirits  were  his  !  what  wit  and  what  whim  ! 

Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb  !  * 

Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 

In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 

That  we  wish’d  him  full  ten  times  a-day  at  Old  Nick. 
But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 

As  often  we  wish’d  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 

The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts  ; 

A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 

His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 

And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine ; 

Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen’d  her  out, 

Or  rather  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout. 

His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  Folly  grows  proud; 

And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 

Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 

Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 

Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 

Say,  was  it,  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men’s  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 

Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf*, 

*  Mr.  Richard  Burke  having  slightly  fractured  an  arm  and  a 
leg  at  different  times,  the  Doctor  has  rallied  him  on  these  acci¬ 
dents,  as  a  kind  of  retributive  justice,  for  breaking  jests  upon 
other  people. 


• 

RETALIATION.  119 

He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 

The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks : 

Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 

Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclinee, 

When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 

I  fear’d  for  your  safety,  I  fear’d  for  my  own ; 

But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 

Our  Dodds  *  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  t  shall  lecture  ; 
Macpherson  J  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style  ; 

Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile  : 

New  Lauders  §  and  Bowers  ||  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 

No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover  ; 

Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 

And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 

*  The  Rev.  Dr.  Dodd,  who  was  executed  for  forgery. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  lectures  at  the  Devil  Tavern,  under  the 
title  of  *  The  School  of  Shakspeare.’  He  was  a  well-known  writer, 
of  prodigious  versatility,  and  some  talent.  Dr.  Johnson  observed 
of  him,  ‘  He  is  one  of  the  many  who  have  made  themselves  public , 
without  making  themselves  known.’ 

{  James  Macpherson,  Esq.,  who  from  the  mere  force  of  his  style, 
wrote  down  the  first  poet  of  all  antiquity. 

$  William  Lauder,  who,  by  interpolating  certain  passages  from 
the  Adamus  Exul  of  Grotius,  with  translations  from  Paradise 

Lost,  endeavored  to  fix  on  Milton  a  charge  of  plagiarism  from 
the  modern  Latin  poets.  Dr.  Douglas  detected  and  exposed  this 
imposture,  and  extorted  from  the  author  a  confession  and  apology. 

||  Archibald  Bower,  a  Scottish  Jesuit,  and  author  of  a  History 
of  the  Popes  from  St.  Peter  to  Lambertini.  Dr.  Douglas  convict* 
ed  Bower  of  gross  imposture,  and  totally  destroyed  the  credit  of 
his  history. 

120 


RETALIATION. 


An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  ; 

As  an  actor,  confess’d  without  rival  to  shine, 

As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line : 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 

And  beplaster’d  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting  ; 

’Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 

He  turn’d  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day : 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 
lie  cast  oil*  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow’d  what  came, 

And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame  ; 

Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease. 

Who  pepper’d  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys ,*  and  Woodfalls  f  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you 
gave ! 

How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 
While  he  was  be-Roscius’d,  and  you  were  be-praised  1 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies : 

*  Hr.  Hugh  Kelley,  originally  a  staymaker,  afterwards  a  news¬ 
paper  editor  and  dramatist,  and  latterly  a  barrister. 

tMr.  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chronicle, 


RETALIATION. 


121 


Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 

Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kelleys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature ; 

He  cherish’d  his  friend,  and  he  relish’d  a  bumper ; 

Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 

I  answer,  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 

His  very  worst  foe  can’t  accuse  him  of  that. 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?  Ah,  no ! 

Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come  tell  it,  and  burn  ye 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  ?  a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 

He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  ; 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand, 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland  : 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 

When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard  of 
hearing : 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Corregios,  and 
stuff, 

He  shifted  his  trumpet,*  and  only  took  snuff. 

*  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  so  deaf  as  to  bo  under  the  necessit) 
of  using  an  ear- trumpet  in  company. 

11 


122 


RETALIATION. 


POSTSCRIPT 

After  the  fourth  edition  of  this  poem  was  printed,  the  publisher 
received  the  following  epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitefoord,*  from  a  friend 
of  the  late  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

Here  Wnitefoord  reclines,  and,  deny  it  who  can, 

Though  he  merrily  lived,  he  is  now  a  grave  man :  t 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun  ! 

Who  relish’d  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun  ; 

Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere  ; 

A  stranger  to  flattery,  a  stranger  to  fear  ; 

Who  scatter’d  around  wit  and  humor  at  will ; 

Whose  daily  bon  mots  half  a  column  might  fill : 

A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free  ; 

A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas  !  that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined ! 

Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 

Yet  content  if  ‘  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar :  ’ 

Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 

Yet  happy  if  Woodfall  \  confess’d  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspaper  witlings,  ye  pert  scribbling  folks  ! 

Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes ; 

Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 

Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb  ; 

To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 

*  Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humorous  essays. 

,*  Mr.  Whitefoord  was  so  notorious  a  punster,  that  Dr.  Gold¬ 
smith  used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him  company,  without 
being  infected  with  the  itch  of  punning. 

|  Mr.  II.  S.  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Public  Advertiser. 


RETALIATION. 


123 


And  copious  libations  bestow  on  bis  shrine ; 

Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 

Cross  Headings ,  Ship  News ,  and  Mistakes  of  the  Press* 
Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humor,  I  had  almost  said  wit ; 
This  debt  to  thy  memory  I  cannot  refuse, 

Thou  besfc-humor’d  man  with  the  worst-humor’d  Muse. 


THE 

DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION. 

A  TALE. 

Secluded  from  domestic  strife, 

Jack  Book- worm  led  a  college  life  ; 

A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 
Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive  ; 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  cracked  his  joke, 

And  freshmen  wonder’d  as  he  spoke. 

Such  pleasures,  unalloy’d  with  care, 

Could  any  accident  impair? 

Could  Cupid’s  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six  ? 

Oh,  had  the  archer  ne’er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town  ! 

Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 

*  Mr.  Whitefoord  had  frequently  indulged  the  town  with  hu¬ 
morous  pieces  under  those  titles  in  the  Public  Advertiser . 


124 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION, 


At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet  Street  shop ! 

Oh,  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze  ! 

Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze  ! 

Oh !  —  but  let  exclamation  cease, 

Her  presence  banished  all  his  peace  ; 

So  with  decorum  all  things  carried, 

Miss  frown’d,  and  blush’d,  and  then  was — married. 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  rapt  ures  of  the  bridal  night  ? 

Need  we  intrude  on  hallow’d  ground, 

Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around  ? 

Let  it  suffice  that  each  had  charms : 

He  clasped  a  goddess  in  his  arms  ; 

And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough. 

Yet  in  a  man  ’twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 

The  second  brought  its  transports  too  ; 

A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 

The  fifth  was  friendship  mixed  with  bliss : 

But,  when  a  twelvemonth  passed  away, 

Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay ; 

Found  half  the  charms  that  deck’d  her  fac<e 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace  ; 

But  still  the  worst  remain’d  behind,  — 

That  very  face  had  robb’d  her  mind. 

Skill’d  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 

But  dressing,  patching,  repartee  ; 

And,  just  as  humor  rose  or  fell, 

By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle. 

’Tis  true  she  dressed  with  modern  grace, 

Half  naked,  at  a  ball  or  race  ; 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION. 


But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 

Five  greasy  nightcaps  wrapp’d  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull,  domestic  friend  ? 

Could  any  curtain-lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing ! 

In  short,  by  night,  ’twas  fits  or  fretting  ; 

By  day,  ’twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 

Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 
Of  powder’d  coxcombs  at  her  levee ; 

The  squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 
And  twrenty  other  near  relations  : 

Jack  suck’d  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 
A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke  ; 

While  all  their  hours  were  pass’d  between 
Insulting  repartee  and  spleen. 

Thus,  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known. 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown  ; 

He  fancies  every  vice  she  shews, 

Or  thins  her  lips,  or  points  her  nose  : 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 

How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes! 
He  knowrs  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 

Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz  ; 

And,  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil, 

.He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Kow,  to  perplex  the  ravell’d  noose. 

As  each  a  different  way  pursues. 

While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life. 

That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 

11* 


J26 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION. 


Witlicrs  the  beauty’s  transient  flower,  — • 
Lo  I  the  small  pox,  with  horrid  glare, 
Levell’d  its  terrors  at  the  fair  ; 

And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace, 

Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright : 

Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes ; 

In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams ; 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens  ; 
The  squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  e’en  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam,  now  condemn’d  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 

Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 

Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old  : 

With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed, 
Humility  displaces  pride ; 

For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean  ; 

No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 

She  learns  good  nature  every  day  : 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 

Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


I 


THE  GIFT. 


127 


THE  GIFT.* 


TO  IBIS,  IN  BOW  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN. 

S&.V,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 

What  annual  offering  shall  I  make 
Expressive  of  my  duty? 

My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 

Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 
The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  ? 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 

My  rivals  give  —  and  let  ’em: 

If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 

I’ll  give  them  —  when  I  get  ’em. 

I’ll  give  —  but  not  the  full-blown  rose, 

Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion  ; 

Such  short-lived  offerings  but  disclose 
A  transitory  passion  — 

I’ll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 

Not  less  sincere  than  civil, — 

I’ll  give  thee  —  ah !  too. charming  maid  1  — 
I’ll  give  thee  —  to  the  Devil ! 

*  Imitated  from  Grecourt.  a  witty  French  poet. 


128  AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  HEATH  OF  A  MAH  HOG. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OE  A  MAD  DOG. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song. 

And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  gojlly  race  he  ran, 

Whene’er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes: 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 

Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound. 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 

The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wond’ring  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 


THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED. 


129 


The  wound  it  seem’d  both  sore  and  sad 
To  every  Christian  eye ; 

And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  show’d  the  rogues  they  lied : 

The  man  recover’d  of  the  bite  — 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTE D.* 

IN  IMITATION  OF  DEAN  SWIFT. 

Logicians  have  but  ill  defined 
As  rational  the  human  mind  : 

Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 

But  let  them  prove  it  if  they  can. 

Wise  Aristotle  and  Smiglesius, 

By  ratiocinations  specious, 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division, 

Homo  est  ratione  preditum  ; 

But  for  my  soul  I  cannot  credit  ’em  ; 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain ; 

And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 
Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature ; 

*  This  happy  imitation  was  adopted  by  his  Dublin  publisher,  as 
a  genuine  poem  of  Swift,  and  as  such  it  has  been  reprinted  in 
almost  every  edition  of  the  Dean’s  works.  Even  Sir  Walter  Scott 
has  inserted  it  without  any  remark  in  his  edition  of  Swift’s  Works. 


130 


THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED. 


That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide 
Than  reason,  boasting  mortals’  pride  ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  ’em  — - 
Dens  est  anima  brutorum. 

Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 
At  law  his  neighbor  prosecute, 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery  ? 

Or  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery  ? 
O’er  plains  they  ramble  unconfined, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind  ; 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  spoil. 
Nor  know  who’s  in  or  out  at  court : 

They  never  to  the  levee  go 
To  treat  as  dearest  friend  a  foe ; 

They  never  importune  his  grace,  . 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob-* 
Fraught  with  invective  they  ne’er  go 
To  folks  at  Paternoster  Bow  : 

No  judges,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters. 

No  pickpockets,  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds ; 

No  single  brute  his  fellow  leads. 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  each  other’s  throats  for  pay 
Of  beasts,  it  is  confess’d,  the  ape 
Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape 
Bike  man,  he  imitates  each  fashion, 


*  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 


t 


A  NEW  SIMILE, 

And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion : 

But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces, 

A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 

Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 
Upon  the  minister  of  state  ; 

View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 
Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors : 

He  promises  with  equal  air, 

And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 

He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators ; 

At  court  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 
Their  masters’  manners  still  contract, 
And  footmen,  lords  and  dukes  can  act. 
Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  and  small 
Behave  alike,  for  all  ape  all. 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 

IN  THE  MANNER  OF  SWIFT. 

Bong  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind  — 
The  modern  scribbling  kind,  who  write 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature’s  spite  — 
Till  reading  —  I  forgot  what  day  on  — - 
A  chapter  out  of  Tooke’s  Pantheon, 

I  think  I  met  with  something  there 
To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair. 

But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious,  — 
First  please  to  turn  to  god  Mercurius ; 
You’ll  find  him  pictured  at  full  length, 


131 


132 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 

In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth ; 

The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 
And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  pray  observe  his  hat, 

Wings  upon  either  side  —  mark  that. 

Well !  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather  ? 
Why,  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 

A  brain  of  feather !  very  right ; 

With  wit  that’s  flighty,  learning  light ; 
Such  as  to  modern  bard’s  decreed : 

A  just  comparison  —  proceed. 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 

Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes-, 
Design’d,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 

And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air : 

And  here  my  simile  unites  ; 

For  in  a  modern  poet’s  flights, 

I’m  sure  it  may  be  justly  said, 

His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t’  observe  his  hand, 
Fill’d  with  a  snake-encircled  wand, 

By  classic  authors  term’d  caduceus, 

And  highly  famed  for  several  uses: 

To  wit,  —  most  wondrously  endued, 

No  poppy-water  half  so  good  ; 

For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 

Its  soporific  virtue’s  such, 

Though  ne’er  so  much  awake  before, 

That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore ; 

Add,  too,  what  certain  writers  tell, 

With  this  he  drives  men’s  souls  to  hell 


A  NEW  SIMILE. 


13S 


Now,  to  apply,  begin  we  then :  — - 
His  wand’s  a  modern  author’s  pen  ; 

The  serpents  round  about  it  twin’d 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind, 

Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes. 

His  frothy  slaver,  venom’d  bites ; 

An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 

Alike,  too,  both  conduce  to  sleep ; 

This  difference  only,  as  tne  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart’rus  with  his  rod, 

With  his  goose-quill  the  scribbling  el£ 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript, 

Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postcript. 
Moreover,  Merc’ry  had  a  failing  ; 

Well !  what  of  that  ?  out  with  it  —  stealing 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 

Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he. 

But  e’en  this  deity’s  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance : 

Our  modern  bards !  why,  what  a  pox, 

Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks  ? 


DESCRIPTION 

OF  AN 

AUTHOR’S  BED-CHAMBER. 

Where  the  Red  Lion,  staring  o’er  the  way. 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay ; 

Where  Calvert’s  butt,  and  Parson’s  black  champagne, 

12 


134 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  BED-CHAMBER. 


Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane : 

There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 

The  Muse  found  Seroggen  stretch’d  beneath  a  rug  ; 

A  window,  patch’d  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 

That  dimly  show’d  the  state  in  which  he  lay ; 

The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread ; 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread ; 

The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  Royal  Martyr  drew ; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 

And  brave  Prince  William  show’d  his  lamp-black  face. 
The  morn  was  cold ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 

With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 

And  five  crack’d  tea-cups  dress’d  the  chimney-board 
A  nightcap  deck’d  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day!* 


A  PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN  AND  SPOKEN  BT  THE  POET  LABERIUS,  A  ROMAN 
KNIGHT,  WHOM  CAESAR  FORCED  UPON  THE  STAGE. 

[Preserved  by  Macrobius.] 

What  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th’  inglorious  stage, 

And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age  ! 

Scarce  half  alive,  oppress’d  with  many  a  year, 

What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here? 

*  The  author  has  given,  with  a  very  slight  alteration,  a  similar 
description  of  the  alehouse,  in  the  Deserted  Village. 


STANZAS. 


135 


A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide. 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside ; 
IJnawed  by  power,  and  unappall’d  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honor  dear  : 

But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 

And  all  my  hoard  of  honor  is  no  more  ; 

For,  ah !  too  partial  to  my  life’s  decline, 

Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine ; 

Him  I  obey,  whom  Heaven  itself  obeys, 

Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 

Here  then  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 

And  cancel,  at  threescore,  a  life  of  fame  : 

No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 

The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well : 

This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 

For  life  is  ended  when  our  honor  ends. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  GLORY  OF  HER  SEX, 
MRS.  MARY  BLAXZE. 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 

Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass’d  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind  ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor  — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 


136 


STANZAS. 


She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning  ; 

And  never  follow’d  wicked  ways  — 

Unless  when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satin  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumber’d  in  her  pew  — • 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver. 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more  ; 

The  king  himself  has  follow’d  her  — 
When  she  has  walk’d  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all : 

The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead  — • 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament  in  sorrow  sore, 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say, 

.That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more  — 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH 

STRUCK  BLIND  BY  LIGHTNING. 

Sure,  ’twas  by  Providence  desim’d. 
Rather  in  pity  than  in  hate, 

That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 
To  save  him  from  Narcissus’  fate. 


L_ 


STANZAS.  137 

THE  CLOWN’S  REPLY. 

Joiin  Trott  was  desired  by  two  witty  peers 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears  ; 

An’t  please  you,’  quoth  John,  4  I’m  not  given  to  letters, 
Nor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters  ; 
Howe’ep  from  this  time,  I  shall  ne’er  see  your  graces  — * 
As  I  hope  to  be  saved !  —  without  thinking  on  asses. 

EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL. 

This  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnell’s  name, 

May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 

That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure’s  flowery  way  ? 
Celestial  themes  confess’d  his  tuneful  aid  ; 

And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  -was  repaid. 

Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 

The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below : 

More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 

While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 

EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON  * 

Here  lies  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 

Who  long  was  a  bookseller’s  hack : 

He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 

I  don’t  think  he’ll  wish  to  come  back. 

*  This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin  ;  but 
having  wasted  his  patrimony,  he  enlisted  as  a  foot  soldier.  Grow¬ 
ing  tired  of  that  employment,  he  obtained  his  discharge,  and  be¬ 
came  a  scribbler  in  the  newspapers.  He  translated  Voltaire’s 
Henriadfi. 

12* 


I 


138  STANZAS. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBEC 

Amidst  the  clamor  of  exulting  joys, 

Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 

And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure  start. 

O  Wolfe !  *  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe 
Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e’en  conquest  dear  ; 

Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 

Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 

Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigor  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes : 

Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead! 

Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 

STANZAS  ON  WOMAN. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy  ? 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye. 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die. 

♦Goldsmith  claimed  relationship  with  this  gallant  soldier,  whose 
character  he  greatly  admired. 


‘ 


- 


SONGS. 


189 


A  SONNET* 

Weeping,  murmuring,  complaining, 

Lost  to  every  gay  delight, 

Myra,  too  sine-  for  feigning, 

F ears  th’  approaching  bridal  night. 

Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection, 

Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear  ? 

Had  Myra  followed  my  direction, 

She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear 

SONG. 

s  From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. 

The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part, 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies ; 

And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper’s  light, 

Adorns  and  cheers  the  way ; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

SONG. 

From  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity. 

O  memoky  !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain, 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain 

*  This  sonnet  is  imitated  from  o  French  madrigal  of  St.  Pa  vies 


140 


PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE. 


Thou,  like  the  world,  the  oppress’d  oppressing. 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch’s  woe  ; 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 

In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe 


SONG. 

Intended  to  have  been  sung  in  the  Comedy  of  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
(pier,  but  omitted,  because  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  acted  the  part  ot 
Miss  Hardcastle,  could  not  sing. 

Ah  me !  when  shall  I  marry  me  ? 

Lovers  are  plenty,  but  fail  to  relieve  me ; 

He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 

Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me. 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  ruiner : 

Not  a  look,  nor  a  smile,  shall  my  passion  discover. 

She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her, 

Makes  but  a  penitent,  and  loses  a  lover. 


PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE,  A  TRAGEDY; 

WRITTEN  BY  JOSEVH  CRADOCK,  ESQ.,  ACTED  AT  THE 
THEATRE  ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN,  1772. 

SROltEN  BY  MR.  QUICK. 

In  these  bold  times,  when  Learning's  sons  explore 
The  distant  climates  and  the  savage  shore ; 

When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer, 

And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  here ; 

While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling, 


PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE. 


Forsake  tlie  fair,  and  patiently  —  go  simpling : 

Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 

And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 

With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden. 

He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading  ; 

Yet  ere  he  lands  he’s  ordered  me  before, 

To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 

Where  are  we  driven  ?  our  reckoning  sure  is  lost  I 
This  seems  a  rocky  and  a  dangerous  coast. 

Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  1  under ! 

Yon  ill-foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder  : 

[  Upper  Gallenj 

There  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I’ve  seen 


’em  — 


Here  trees  of  stately  size  —  and  billing  turtles  in  ’em. 


\_Balconies 

\_Staye. 


Here  ill-condition’d  oranges  abound  — 


And  apples,  bitter  apples,  strew  the  ground  : 

[  Tasting  them. 

The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear ; 
l  heard  a  hissing  — -  there  are  serpents  here  ! 

Oh,  there  the  people  are  —  best  keep  my  distance  : 

Our  Captain,  gentle  natives,  craves  assistance  ; 

Our  ship’s  well  stored — in  yonder  creek  we’ve  laid  her. 
His  Honor  is  no  mercenary  trader. 

This  is  his  first  adventure  :  lend  him  aid, 

And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 

His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from  far, 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 

VYliat !  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample  ? 

I'd  best  step  back  —  and  order  up  a  sample. 


142 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  SISTERS. 


EPILOGUE 

TO  THE  COMEDY  OF  THE  SISTERS  * 

W  hat  !  five  long  acts  —  and  all  to  make  us  wiser 
Our  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 

Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 
Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade  : 

Warm’d  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage, 

Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 

My  life  on’t  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking, 

Have  pleased  our  eyes,  and  saved  the  pain  of  thinking. 
Well,  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 

Wh  at  if  I  give  a  masquerade?  —  I  will. 

But  how  ?  ay,  there’s  the  rub !  \_j)ausiuyj  I’ve  got  my 
cue : 

The  world’s  a  masquerade !  the  masquers,  you,  you,  you. 

\_To  Boxes ,  Pit ,  and  Gallery . 
Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses ! 

False  wits,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false  spouses ! 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on  ;  and,  close  beside  ’em, 

Patriots  in  party-color’d  suits  that  ride  ’em : 

There  Ilebes,  turn’d  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  fiame  in  Cupids  of  threescore  ; 

These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 

Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen ; 

*  By  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox,  author  of  the  Female  Quixote. 
Shakspeure  Illustrated ,  etc.  It  was  performed  one  night  only  a: 
Covent  Garden,  in  1709.  This  lady  was  praised  by  Dr.  Johnson, 
as  the  cleverest  female  writer  of  her  age. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  SISTEES. 


1 48 


Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon. 

Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman  ; 

The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure, 

And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she ’s  got  power  to  cure. 

Thus ’t  is  with  all :  their  chief  and  constant  care 
Is  to  seem  everything  —  but  what  they  are. 

Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  eye  on, 

Who  seems  t’  have  robb’d  his  vizor  from  the  lion ; 

Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round  parade, 
Looking,  as  who  should  say,  Damme !  who ’s  afraid  ? 

\  Mimicking 

Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and,  sure  I  am, 

You  ’ll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb : 

Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate, 

Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state  ; 

Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t’  assume, 

He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 

Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 

And  seems,  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white. 

If  with  a  bribe  his  candor  you  attack, 

He  bows,  turns  round,  and  whip  —  the  man ’s  in  black  : 
Yon  critic,  too  —  but  whither  do  I  run  ? 

If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone ! 

Well,  then,  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too : 

Do  you  spare  her,  and  I  ’ll  for  once  spare  you. 


EPILOGUE, 


SPOKEN  BY 

MES.  BULKLEY  AND  MISS  CATLEY. 

Enter  Mrs.  Bulldey ,  who  courtesies  very  low ,  as  beginning  to  speak. 
Then  enter  Miss  Catley ,  who  stands  full  before  her ,  and  courtesies  to 
the  audience. 

Mrs.  Bulldey.  Hold,  Ma’am,  your  pardon.  What ’s 
your  business  here  ? 

Miss  Catley.  The  Epilogue. 

Mrs.  B.  The  Epilogue  ? 

Miss  C.  Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  B.  Sure,  you  mistake,  Ma’am.  The  Epilogue ! 
1  bring  it. 

Miss  C.  Excuse  me,  Ma’am.  The  author  bid  me 
sing  it. 

Recitative. 

Ye  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

Mrs.  B.  Why,  sure,  the  girl ’s  beside  herself !  an  Ep 
ilogue  of  singing  ? 

A  hopeful  end,  indeed,  to  such  a  blest  beginning. 

Besides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set  — 

Excuse  me,  Ma’am,  I  know  the  etiquette. 

Miss  C.  What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  B.  The  house  ?  —  Agreed. 


145 


EPILOGUE. 


Miss  C.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  B.  And  she  whose  party  ’s  largest  shall  pro¬ 
ceed. 

And  first,  1  hope  you  ’ll  readily  agree 
I ’ve  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  for  me. 

They,  1  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands : 

^  e  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 

What !  no  return  ?  I  find  too  late,  I  fear. 

That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 

Miss  C.  I’m  for  a  different  set : — Old  men,  whose  trade 
is 

Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies. 

Recitative. 

W  ho  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smiling. 

Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling  : 

Air. —  Cotillon. 

Turn,  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 

Strephon  caught  thy  ravish’d  eye, 

Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 

Who  without  your  aid  must,  die. 

Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  hu  ! 

Yes,  I  must  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Da  Capo 

Mrs.  B.  Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit ; 

G  ive  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit. 

Ye  tra veil’d  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train, 

Of  French  friseurs  and  nosegays  justly  vain, 

W  lie  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a-year, 

IS 


146 


EPILOGUE. 


To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here, — 
Lend  me  your  hands :  0,  fatal  news  to  tell, 

Their  hands  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinelle. 

Miss  G.  Ay,  take  your  travellers  —  travellers  indeed 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,  that  travels  from  the  Tweed. 
Where  are  the  chiels  ?  Ah,  ah,  I  well  discern 
The  smiling  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

Am. —  A  bonnie  young  lad  is  my  Jockey . 

I’ll  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day, 

And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay  ; 

When  you  with  your  bagpipes  are  ready  to  play, 

My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 

With  Sawnie,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey. 

Mrs.  B.  Ye  gamesters,  who,  so  eager  in  pursuit. 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toute : 

Ye  jockey  tribe,  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 

£  I  hold  the  odds  —  Done,  done,  with  you,  with  you .  * 

Ye  barristers,  so  fluent  with  grimace, 

‘  My  Lord,  your  Lordship  misconceives  the  case : 
Doctors,  who  answer  every  misfortuner, 

‘  I  wish  I’d  been  call’d  in  a  little  sooner  : ’ 

Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 

Come,  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

Air. —  BaUinamony. 

Miss  O.  Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woeful  attack ; 

For  —  sure,  I  don’t  wrong  you  —  you  seldom  are  slack- 


EPILOGUE. 


147 


When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush  and  hang  back. 

For  you  are  always  polite  and  attentive, 

Still  to  amuse  us  inventive, 

And  death  is  your  only  preventive  ; 

Your  hands  and  voices  for  me. 

Mrs.  B.  Well,  Madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  sparring 
We  both  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring  ? 

2 Miss  C.  And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  unbrok 

en, 

What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Agreed. 

Miss  C.  Agreed. 

Mrs.  B.  And  now  with  late  repentance, 

Un-epilogued  the  Poet  waits  his  sentence. 

Condemn  the  stubborn  fool,  who  can’t  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit. 

Exeunt 

AJS1  EPILOGUE 

INTENDED  FOR  MRS.  BULKLEY. 

There  is  a  place  —  so  Ariosto  sings  — 

A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things, 

Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  assign’d  them, 

And  they  who  lose  tlieir  senses,  there  may  find  them 
But  where ’s  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  age? 

The  Moon,  says  he  ;  but  I  affirm,  the  Stage  — 

At  least,  in  many  things,  I  think  I  see 
His  lunar  and  our  mimic  world  agree  : 

Both  shine  at  night,  for,  but  at  Foote’s  alone. 

We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down ; 


148 


EPILOGUE. 


Roth  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 

And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 

Rut  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is, 

That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses ; 

To  this  strange  spot,  Rakes,  Macaronies,  Cits, 
Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scatter’d  wits. 
The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 

Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  away. 
Hither  th’  affected  city  dame  advancing, 

Who  sighs  for  Operas,  and  doats  on  dancing, 
Taught  by  our  art,  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 
Quits  the  Ballet ,  and  calls  for  Nancy  Dawson. 
The  Gamester,  too,  whose  wit’s  all  high  or  low? 
Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw, 
Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 
Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pays  his  debts. 
The  Mohawk,  too,  with  angry  phrases  stored  — 
As,  4  Damme,  Sir !  ’  and  ‘  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword !  * 
Here  lesson’d  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating, 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  a  beating. 
Here  comes  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news, 
But  find  no  sense  —  for  they  had  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser, 

Our  Author ’s  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser ; 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favor  place 
On  sentimental  queens,  and  lords  in  lace  ? 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet,  or  garter, 

How  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter  ? 
No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment :  the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  Nature. 

Yes,  he ’s  far  gone  :  and  yet  some  pity  fix, 

The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  lunatics. 


EPILOGUE, 


SPOKEN  BY  MR.  LEE  LEWES,  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OK 
HARLEQUIN,  AT  HIS  BENEFIT. 

Hold  !  Prompter,  hold !  a  word  before  your  nonsense 
I’d  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 

My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said 
My  heels  eclipsed  the  honors  of  my  head  ; 

That  I  found  humor  in  a  piebald  vest, 

Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest. 

[  Takes  off  his  mask. 

Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 

Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns  thy  mirth : 

In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 

The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  wo  that  weeps. 

How  hast  thou  fill’d  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood 
Of  fools  pursuing  and  of  fools  pursued  ! 

Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 

Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses  ; 

Whilst  from  below  the  trap-door  demons  rise, 

And  from  above  the  dangling  deities  : 

And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallow’d  crew? 

May  rosin’d  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do  ! 

No  —  I  will  act  —  I’ll  vindicate  the  stage : 

Shakspeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 

Off !  off !  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns  l 
The  madd’ning  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 

Oh !  for  a  Richard’s  voice  to  catch  the  theme,  — 

13* 


150 


EPILOGUE. 


Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds !  — soft  — 
’twas  but  a  dream/ 

Ay,  ’twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there’s  no  retreating. 

If  I  cease  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 

’Twas  thus  that  JEsop’s  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 

Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless, 

Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood 
And  cavill’d  at  his  image  in  the  flood : 

•  The  deuce  confound,’  he  cries,  ‘  these  drumstick  shanks, 
They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks  ; 

They’re  perfectly  disgraceful !  strike  me  dead ! 

But  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head : 

How  piercing  is  that  eye  !  how  sleek  that  brow  ! 

My  horns !  —  I’m  told  that  horns  are  the  fashion  now.’ 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonish’d,  to  his  view, 

Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen  drew ; 

‘  Hoicks  !  hark  forward !  ’  came  thund’ring  from  behind 
He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind ; 

He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways ; 

He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maze  : 

At  length,  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 

Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore ; 

Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free, 

And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself — like  me. 

[  ToJcing  a  jump  through  the  stage  door 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS* 


EXCEED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HER  LATE  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE 

PRINCESS  DOWAGER  OF  WALES. 

8POKEN  AND  SUNG  IN  THE  GREAT  ROOM  IN  SOUO-8<iU ARE, 

Thursday,  the  20th  day  of  February,  1772. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  may  more  properly  be  termed  a  com¬ 
pilation  than  a  poem.  It  was  prepared  for  the  composer 
in  little  more  than  two  days :  and  may  therefore  rather 
be  considered  as  an  industrious  effort  of  gratitude  than  of 
genius. 

In  justice  to  the  composer,  it  may  likewise  be  right  to 
inform  the  public,  that  the  music  was  adapted  in  a  period 
of  time  equally  short. 

Speakers  —  Mr.  Lee  and  Mrs.  Bellamy. 

Singers  —  Mr.  Champ nes,  Mr.  Dine ,  and  Miss  Jameson. 

THE  MUSIC  PREPARED  AND  ADAPTED  BY  SIGNIOR  VENTO. 


#  This  poem  was  first  printed  in  Chalmers’  edition  of  the  Eng 
iish  Poets ,  from  a  copy  given  by  Goldsmith  to  his  friend,  Joseph 
Cradock,  Esq.,  author  of  the  tragedy  of  Zoheide. 


152 


THREN0D1A  AUGUSTA  LIS. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 

OVERTURE — A  SOLEMN  DIRGE. 

AIR  —  TRIO. 

Arise,  ye  sons  of  worth,  arise, 

And  waken  every  note  of  woe  ! 

When  truth  and  virtue  reach  the  skiea 
’Tis  ours  to  weep  the  want  below. 

CHORUS. 

When  truth  and  virtue,  etc. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 

The  praise  attending  pomp  and  power,  • 

The  incense  given  to  kings, 

Are  but  the  trappings  of  an  hour, 

Mere  transitory  things. 

The  base  bestow  them ;  but  the  good  agree 
To  spurn  the  venal  gifts  as  flattery. 

But  when  to  pomp  and  power  are  join’d 
An  equal  dignity  of  the  mind ; 

When  titles  are  the  smallest  claim  ; 

When  wealth  and  rank,  and  noble  blood 
But  aid  the  power  of  doing  good : 

Then  all  their  trophies  last  —  and  flattery  turns  to 
fame. 

Blest  spirit,  thou,  whose  fame,  just  born  to  bloom. 
Shall  spread  and  flourish  from  the  tomb, 

He  w  hast  thou  left  mankind  for  Heaven ! 

Even  now  reproach  and  faction  mourn, 

And,  wondering  how  their  rage  was  born. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTAL1S. 


Request  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Alas !  they  never  had  thy  hate  ; 

Unmoved,  in  conscious  rectitude, 

Thy  towering  mind  self-centred  stood, 

Nor  wanted  man’s  opinion  to  be  great. 

In  vain,  to  charm  the  ravish’d  sight, 

A  thousand  gifts  would  fortune  send ; 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  the  right, 

A  thousand  sorrows  urged  thy  end  : 

Like  some  well-fashion’d  arch  thy  patience  stood, 
And  purchased  strength  from  its  increased  load. 
Pain  met  thee  like  a  friend  to  set  thee  free, 
Affliction  still  is  virtue’s  opportunity  ! 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 

Every  passion  hushed  to  rest, 

Loses  every  pain  of  dying 
In  the  hopes  of  being  blest. 

Every  added  pang  she  suffers 
Some  increasing  good  bestows, 

And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

SONG.  BY  A  MAN  —  AFFETTJOSO 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying,  etc. 
to 

Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 

Yet  ah  !  what  terrors  frown’d  upon  her  fate, 
Death,  with  its  formidable  band, 

Fever,  and  pain,  and  pale  consumptive  cares 


154 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


Determined  took  tlieir  stand. 

Nor  did  the  cruel  ravagers  design 
To  finish  all  their  efforts  at  a  blow : 

But,  mischievously  slow, 

They  robb’d  the  relic  and  defaced  the  shrine. 

With  unavailing  grief, 

Despairing  of  relief, 

Her  weeping  children  round 
Beheld  each  hour 
Death’s  growing  pow’r, 

And  trembled  as  he  frown’d. 

As  helpless  friends  who  view  from  shore 
The  laboring  snip,  and  hear  the  tempest  roar, 

While  winds  and  waves  their  wishes  cross, — - 
They  stood,  while  hope  and  comfort  fail, 

Not  to  assist,  but  to  bewail 
The  inevitable  loss. 

Relentless  tyrant,  at  thy  call 
How  do  the  good,  the  virtuous  fall ! 

Truth,  beauty,  worth,  and  all  that  most  engage. 

But  wake  thy  vengeance  and  provoke  thy  rage. 

SONG.  BY  A  M4.N — BASSO,  STOCCATO,  SriKITUOBO. 

When  vice  my  dart  and  scythe  supply, 

How  great  a  King  of  Terrors  I ! 

If  folly,  fraud,  your  hearts  engage, 

Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  I 
Fall,  iound  me  fall,  ye  little  things, 

Ye  statesmen,  warriors,  poets,  kings, 

If  virtue  fail  her  counsel  sage, 

Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  ! 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


155 


MAN  SPEAKER. 

Yet  let  that  wisdom,  urged  by  her  example, 

Teach  us  to  estimate  what  all  must  suffer  : 

Let  us  prize  death  as  the  best  gift  of  nature, 

As  a  sate  inn  where  weary  travellers, 

When  they  have  journey’d  through  a  world  of  cares, 
May  put  off  life,  and  be  at  rest  forever. 

Groans,  weeping  friends,  indeed,  and  gloomy  sables, 
May  oft  distract  us  with  their  sad  solemnity : 

The  preparation  is  the  executioner. 

Death,  when  unmask’d,  shows  me  a  friendly  face, 

And  is  a  terror  only  at  a  distance  : 

For  as  the  line  of  life  conducts  me  on 
To  Death’s  great  court,  the  prospect  seems  more  fair 
’Tis  Nature’s  kind  retreat,  that’s  always  open 
To  take  us  in  when  we  have  drained  the  cup 
Of  life,  or  worn  our  days  to  wretchedness. 

In  that  secure,  serene  retreat, 

Where  all  the  humble,  all  the  great, 

Promiscuously  recline ; 

Where  wildly  huddled  to  the  eye, 

The  beggar’s  pouch,  and  prince’s  purple  lie : 

May  every  bliss  be  thine! 

And,  ah  !  blest  spirit,  wheresoe’er  thy  flight,- 
Through  rolling  worlds,  or  fields  of  liquid  light, 

May  cherubs  welcome  their  expected  guest ! 

May  saints  with  songs  receive  thee  to  their  rest ! 

May  peace,  that  claim’d  while  here,  thy  warmest  love, 
May  blissful,  endless  peace  be  thine  above ! 


156 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALT&, 


SONG.  BY  A  WOMAN — AMOROSO. 

Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  below, 

Comforter  of  every  woe, 

Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 

To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky  I 
Lovely,  lasting  Peace,  appear ! 

This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 

Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 

And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 

Our  vows  are  heard  !  Long,  long  to  mortal  eyes, 
Her  soul  was  fitting  to  its  kindred  skies : 

Celestial  like  her  bounty  fell, 

Where  modest  Want  and  patient  Sorrow  dwell ; 
Want  pass'd  for  Merit  at  her  door, 

Unseen  the  modest  were  supplied, 

Her  constant  pity  fed  the  poor,  ■ — 

Then  only  poor,  indeed,  the  day  she  died. 

And,  ohl  for  this,  while  sculpture  decks  thy  shrine, 
And  art  exhausts  profusion  round, 

The  tribute  of  a  tear  be  mine, 

A  simple  song,  a  sigh  profound. 

There  faith  shall  come  —  a  pilgrim  gray, 

To  bless  the  tomb  that  wraps  thy  clay  1 
And  calm  Religion  shall  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there.  * 

Truth,  Fortitude,  and  Friendship,  shall  agree 
To  blend  their  virtues  while  they  think  of  thee 


s 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


157 


AIR  —  CHORUS  POMPOSO. 

Let  us  —let  all  the  world  agree. 

To  profit  by  resembling  thee. 

PART  IL 

OVERTURE  —  PASTORALE. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 

Fast  by  that  shore  where  Thames’  translucent  stream 
Reflects  new  glories  on  his  breast, 

Where,  splendid  as  the  youthful  poet’s  dream, 

He  forms  a  scene  beyond  Elysium  blest ; 

Where  sculptured  elegance  and  native  grace 
Unite  to  stamp  the  beauties  of  the  place ; 

While,  sweetly  blending,  still  are  seen 
The  wavy  lawn,  the  sloping  green  ; 

While  novelty,  with  cautious  cunning, 

Through  every  maze  of  fancy  running, 

From  China  borrows  aid  to  deck  the  scene : 

There,  sorrowing  by  the  river’s  glassy  bed, 

Forlorn,  a  rural  band  complain’d, 

All  whom  Augusta’s  bounty  fed, 

All  whom  her  clemency  sustain’d ; 

The  good  old  sire,  unconscious  of  decay, 

The  modest  matron,  clad  in  home-spun  grey, 

The  military  boy,  the  orphan’d  maid, 

The  shatter’d  veteran  now  first  dismay’d,  — 

These  sadly  join  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 

And,  as  they  view  the  towers  of  Kew, 

Call  on  their  mistress  —  now  no  more  —  and  weep. 

14 


158 


THItENOD fA  AUGUSTALI3. 


CHORUS. —  AFFETUOSO,  LAKOO. 

fe  sliudy  walks,  ye  waving  greens, 

Ye  nodding  towers,  ye  fairy  scenes, 

Let  all  your  echoes  now  deplore, 

That  she  who  form’d  your  beauties  is  no  more. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 

First  of  the  train  the  patient  rustic  came, 

Whose  callous  hand  had  form’d  the  scene, 

Bending  at  once  with  sorrow  and  with  age, 

With  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  sigh  between : 

And  where,’  he  cried, 4  shall  now  ray  babes  have  bread 
Or  how  shall  age  support  its  feeble  fire  ? 

No  lord  will  take  me  now,  my  vigor  fled, 

Nor  can  my  strength  perform  what  they  require 
Each  grudging  master  keeps  the  laborer  bare, 

A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care. 

My  noble  mistress  thought  not  so : 

Her  bounty,  like  the  morning  dew, 

Unseen,  though  constant,  used  to  flow, 

And  as  my  strength  decay’d,  her  bounty  grew/ 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 

In  decent  dress,  and  coarsely  clean, 

The  pious  matron  next  was  seen, 

Clasp’d  in  her  hand  a  godly  book  was  borne, 

By  use  and  daily  meditation  worn  ; 

That  decent  dress,  this  holy  guide, 

Augusta’s  cares  had  well  supplied. 

And  ah !  ’  she  cries,  all  wobegone, 


THRENODIA  AUGCSTALIS. 


159 


6  What  now  remains  for  me  ? 

Oh !  where  shall  weeping  want  repair 
To  ask  for  charity  ? 

Too  late  in  life  for  me  to  ask, 

And  shame  prevents  the  deed, 

And  tardy,  tardy  are  the  times 
To  succor,  should  I  need. 

But  all  my  wants,  before  I  spoke, 

Were  to  my  mistress  known  ; 

She  still  relieved,  nor  sought  my  praise. 
Contented  with  her  own. 

But  every  day  her  name  I’ll  bless, 

My  morning  prayer,  my  evening  song? 
i’ll  praise  her  while  my  life  shall  last, 

A  life  that  cannot  last  me  long.’ 

SONG. —  BY  A  WOMAN. 

Each  day,  each  hour,  her  name  I’ll  bless. 

My  morning  and  my  evening  song, 

And  when  in  death  my  vows  shall  cease, 

My  children  shall  the  note  prolong. 

MAN  SPEAKER. 

The  hardy  veteran  after  struck  the  sight, 
Scarr’d,  mangled,  maim’d  in  every  part, 
Lopp’d  of  his  limbs  in  many  a  gallant  fight. 

In  nought  entire  —  except  his  heart : 

Mute  for  a  while,  and  sullenly  distrest, 

At  last  th’  impetuous  sorrow  fired  his  breast :  - 
Wild  is  the  whirlwind  rolling 
O’er  Afric’s  sandy  plain, 


.60 


THKENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


And  wide  the  tempest  howling 
Along  the  billow’d  main : 

Hut  every  danger  felt  before, 

The  raging  deep,  the  whirlwind’s  roar, 

Less  dreadful  struck  me  with  dismay 
Than  what  I  feel  this  fatal  day. 

Oh,  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurns  the  brave, 
Oswego’s  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave  ; 
i’ll  seek  that  less  inhospitable  coast, 

And  lay  my  body  where  my  limbs  were  lost. 

SONG. —  BY  A  MAN. —  BASSO  8PIRITUOOO* 

Old  Edward’s  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 

Shall  crowd  from  Cress/s  laurell’d  field, 

To  do  thy  memory  right : 

For  thine  and  Britain’s  wrongs  they  feel. 

Again  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 

And  wish  th’  avenging  fight. 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 

In  innocence  and  youth  complaining, 

Next  appear’d  a  lovely  maid ; 

Affliction,  o’er  each  feature  reigning, 

Kindly  came  in  beauty’s  aid : 

Every  grace  that  grief  dispenses, 

Every  glance  that  warms  the  soul, 

In  sweet  succession  charms  the  senses, 

While  Pity  harmonized  the  whole. 

‘  The  garland  of  beauty,’  ’tis  thus  she  would  say, 
i  No  more  shall  my  crook  or  my  temples  adorn ; 
I’ll  not  wear  a  garland  —  Augusta’s  away  — 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 


I’ll  not  wear  a  garland  until  she  return. 

But,  alas  !  that  return  I  never  shall  see  : 

The  echoes  of  Thames  shall  my  sorrows  proclaim, 
There  promised  a  lover  to  come  —  but,  ah  me ! 

Twas  death  —  ’twas  the  death  of  my  mistress  that 
came. 

But  ever,  for  ever,  her  image  shall  last, 

I’ll  strip  all  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom ; 

On  her  grave  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  new-blossom’d  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb 

SONG. —  BY  A  WOMAN. —  PASTORALE. 

With  garlands  of  beauty  the  Queen  of  the  May 
IS  o  more  will  her  crook  or  her  temples  adorn ; 

I  or  who’d  wear  a  garland  when  she  is  away, 

When  she  is  removed,  and  shall  never  return  ? 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  these  garlands  be  placed, 
We’ll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 

And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  new-blossom’d  thorn  shall  whiten  her  tomb, 

CHORUS. —  ALTRO  MODO. 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  this  garland  be  placed, 

We’ll  rifle  the  Spring  of  its  earliest  bloom, 

And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 

And  the  tears  of  her  country  shall  water  her  tomb,. 


14* 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO.® 


THE  PERSONS. 

First  Jewish  Prophet.  First  Chaldean  Priest . 

Second  Jewish  Prophet.  Second  Chaldean  Priest 
lsraelitish  Woman.  Chaldean  Woman. 

Chorus  of  Youths  and  Virgins. 

Scene  —  The  Banks  of  the  River  Euphrates  near  Babylon . 


ACT  THE  EIRST. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Ye  captive  tribes  that  hourly  work  and  weep 
Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to  the  deep. 
Suspend  your  woes  a  while,  the  task  suspend, 

And  turn  to  God,  your  father  and  your  friend  : 
Insulted,  chain’d,  and  all  the  world  our  foe, 

Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 

Air. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 

To  him  we  turn  our  eyes ; 

*  This  was  first  printed  from  the  original,  in  Dr.  Goldsmith's 
own  hand-writing,  in  the  8vo.  edition  of  his  Miscellaneous  Worksy 
published  in  1820. 


THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATARIO. 


1 6b 


And  every  added  weight  of  wo 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

And  though  no  temple  richly  dress’d, 

Nor  sacrifice  is  here, 

We’ll  make  his  temple  in  our  breast, 

And  offer  up  a  tear. 

[  The  Jirst  stanza  repeated  by  the  Chords 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 

That  strain  once  more  !  it  bids  remembrance  rise, 

And  brings  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes : 

Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  dress’d  in  flowery  pride, 

Ye  plains  where  Kedron  rolls  its  glassy  tide, 

Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crown’d, 

Ye  Gilead  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around,  — 

How  sweet  those  groves  !  that  plain  how  wondrous  fair 
Hew  doubly  sweet  when  Heaven  was  with  us  there  1 

Air. 

O  Memory !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

Hence,  intruder  most  distressing ! 

Seek  the  happy  and  the  free  : 

The  wretch  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 

Ever  wants  a  friend  in  thee. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Yet  why  complain  P  What  though  by  bonds  confined  ? 


164 


THE  CAPTIVITY :  AN  ORATORIO. 


Should  bonds  repress  the  vigor  of  the  mind  ? 

Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph,  when  we  see 
Ourselves  alone  from  idol  worship  free  ? 

-Are  not,  this  very  morn,  those  feasts  begun 
Where  prostrate  error  hails  the  rising  sun  ? 

Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 
For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane  ? 

And  should  we  mourn  ?  Should  coward  virtue  fly, 
When  vaunting  folly  lifts  her  head  on  high  ? 

No !  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more, 

And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  spirits  soar. 

Air. 

The  triumphs  that  on  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end  ; 

The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain, 

And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain  : 

As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow ; 

But  crush’d,  or  trodden  to  the  ground, 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyrant  lords  are  near, 

The  sounds  of  barbarous  pleasure  strike  mine  ear ; 
Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale, 

Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale : 

The  growing  sound  their  swift  approach  declares  — 
Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theirs. 


THE  captivity:  an  oratorio.  165 

Enter  Chaldean  Priests  attended. 

Air. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  display, 

Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ  ; 

The  sur.  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 

And  our  monarch  partakes  in  the  joy. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  rapture  supplies. 

Both  similar  blessings  bestow  : 

The  sun  with  his  splendor  illumines  the  skh^s, 

And  our  monarch  enlivens  below. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 

Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure, 

Love  presents  the  fairest  treasure, 

Leave  all  other  joys  for  me. 

A  CHALDEAN  ATTENDANT. 

Or  rather,  love’s  delights  despising, 

Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising, 

Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free. 

FIRST  PRIEST 

Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 

Each  to  different  joys  exciting, 

Whither  shall  my  choice  incline. 


i 


THE  CAPTIVITY!  A2T  ORATORIO. 


i  66 


SECOND  PRIEST. 

I'll  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 

But,  neither  this  nor  that  refusing, 

I’ll  make  them  both  together  mine 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

But  whence,  when  joy  sh^kl  brighten  o’er  thr  Vnd, 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah’s  captive  band  ? 

Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  Into  unstrung  ? 

Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung  ? 

Come,  take  the  lyre,  and  pour  the  strain  along  f 
The  day  demands  it :  sing  us  Sion’s  s^tig, 

Dismiss  your  griefs,  and  join  our  warbling  cbo** 

For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  Ivrw  f 

Air. 

Every  moment  as  it  flows, 

Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes 
Come  then,  providently  wise, 

Seize  the  debtor  e’er  it  flies. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  debt  of  pleasure  lost  to-day 
Alas !  to-morrow’s  richest  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Chain’d  as  we  are,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind, 

To  want,  to  toil,  and  every  ill  consign’d, 

Ls  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain, 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 


167 


Or  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain  ? 

No,  never  !  may  this  hand  forget  each  art 
That  wakes  to  finest  joys  the  human  heart, 

Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 

Or  join  to  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth ! 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Rebellious  slaves !  if  soft  persuasion  fail. 

More  formidable  terrors  shall  prevail. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Why,  let  them  come,  one  good  remains  to  cheer  — 

We  fear  the  Lord,  and  scorn  all  other  fear. 

[Exeunt  Chaldeans. 

CHORUS  OF  ISRAELITES. 

Can  chains  or  tortures  bend  the  mind 
On  God’s  supporting  breast  reclined  ? 

Stand  fast,  and  let  our  tyrants  see 

That  fortitude  is  victory.  f  Exeunt 


ACT  THE  SECOND. 

Israelites  and  Chaldeans  as  before. 
Air . 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

O  peace  of  mind,  angelic  guest, 

Thou  soft  companion  of  the  breast, 
Dispense  thy  balmy  store ! 


168 


THE  CAPTIVITY:  AN  ORATORIO. 


W  ing  all  our  thoughts  to  reach  the  skies, 
Till  earth,  receding  from  our  eyes, 

Shall  vanish  as  we  soar ! 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

No  more.  Too  long  has  justice  been  delay’d, 
The  king’s  commands  must  fully  be  obey’d  ; 
Compliance  with  his  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours. 

But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 

You  spurn  the  favors  offer’d  from  his  hand, 
Think,  timely  think,  what  terrors  are  behind  ; 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  rage  the  royal  mind. 

Air. 

Pierce  is  the  tempest  howling 
Along  the  furrow’d  main, 

And  fierce  the  whirlwind  rolling 
O’er  Afric’s  sandy  plain. 

But  storms  that  fly 
To  rend  the  sky, 

Every  ill  presaging, 

Less  dreadful  show 
To  worlds  below 
Than  angry  monarchs  raging. 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 

Adi  me !  what  angry  terrors  round  us  grow  \ 

How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threaten’d  blow 
Ye  prophets,  skill’d  in  Heaven’s  eternal  truth, 


THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATORIO. 


Forgive  my  sex’s  fears,  forgive  my  youth ! 

Ah  !  let  us  one,  one  little  hour  obey ; 
To-morrow’s  tears  may  wash  the  stain  away. 

Air. 

Fatigued  with  life,  yet  loath  to  part. 

On  hope  the  wretch  relies ; 

Amd  every  blow  that  sinks  the  heart 
Bids  the  deluder  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  taper’s  gleamy  light 
Adorns  the  wretch’s  way ; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night. 
Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Why  this  delay  ?  At  length  for  joy  prepare  : 

I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 
Come  on,  and  bid  the  warbling  rapture  rise  ; 

Our  monarch’s  fame  the  noblest  theme  supplies. 
Begin,  ye  captive  bands,  and  strike  the  lyre  ; 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  aljl  conspire. 

Air . 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN 

See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling, 

Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling ; 
Zephyrs  through  the  woodland  playing, 
Streams  along  the  valley  straying. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 

15 


170 


the  captivity:  an  ORATORIO. 


Shall  reason  only  teach  to  weep  ? 

Hence,  intruder !  we’ll  pursue 
Nature,  a  better  guide  than  you. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

But  hold  !  see,  foremost  of  the  captive  choir, 

The  master  prophet  grasps  his  full-toned  lyre. 

Mark  where  he  sits,  with  executing  art, 

F eels  for  each  tone,  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart. 

See,  how  prophetic  rapture  fills  his  form, 

Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm  ! 
And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string. 
Prepares  our  monarch’s  victories  to  sing. 

Air. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

From  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from  west, 
Conspiring  nations  come : 

Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast ! 
Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 

The  tempest  gathers  all  around, 

On  Babylon  it  lies  ; 

Down  with  her !  down,  down  to  the  ground 
She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies, 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust. 

Before  yon  setting  sun ; 

Serve  her  as  she  hath  served  the  just! 

’Tis  fix’d  —  it  shall  be  done 


THE  captivity:  an  oratorio. 


171 


FIRST  PRIEST. 

No  more !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 

The  king  himself  shall  judge  and  fix  their  doom. 
Unthinking  wretches !  have  not  you  and  all 
Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiali’s  fall  ? 

To  yonder  gloomy  dungeon  turn  your  eyes : 

See  where  dethroned  your  captive  monarch  lies, 
Deprived  of  sight,  and  rankling  in  his  chain ; 

See  where  he  mourns  his  friends  and  children  slain. 

Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 
More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  confined. 

CHORUS  OF  ALL. 

Arise,  all  potent  ruler,  rise, 

And  vindicate  the  people’s  cause, 

Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 
Shall  offer  up  unfeigned  applause. 

[ Exeunt 


ACT  THE  THIRD. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

Y  38,  my  companions,  Heaven’s  decrees  are  pass’d. 
And  our  fix’d  empire  shall  for  ever  last : 

In  vain  the  madd’ning  prophet  threatens  woe, 

In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow  ; 

Still  shall  our  name  and  growing  power  be  spread, 
And  still  our  justice  crush  the  traitor’s  head. 


172 


THE  CAPTIVITY*  AN  OKATOBIO. 


Air. 

Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 

And  never  shall  fall 
Till  ruin  shakes  all. 

When  ruin  shakes  all, 

Then  shall  Babylon  fall. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Tis  thus  the  proud  triumphant  rear  the  head.  — 
A  little  while  and  all  their  power  is  fled. 

But,  ha  !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train. 
That  onward  slowly  bends  along  the  plain  ? 

And  now,  behold,  to  yonder  bank  they  bear 
A  pallid  corse,  and  rest  the  body  there. 

Alas  !  too  well  mine  eyes  indignant  trace 
The  last  remains  of  Judah’s  royal  race: 

Fall’n  is  our  king,  and  all  our  fears  are  o’er, 
Unhappy  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 

Air. 

Ye  wretches,  wrho,  by  fortune’s  hate, 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan, 

Come,  ponder  his  severer  fate, 

And  learn  to  bless  your  own. 

FIRST  rROPIIET. 

Ye  vain,  whom  youth  and  pleasure  guidk 
Awhile  the  bliss  suspend  ; 

Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride, 

Like  his,  your  lives  shall  end. 


THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATORIO. 


173 


SECOND  PROPHET. 

Behold  his  wretched  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 

His  squalid  limbs  by  ponderous  fetters  torn  ; 

Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shook  with  ghastly  glare, 

Those  unbecoming  rags,  that  matted  hair ! 

And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  avenge  the  foe, 

Grasp  the  red  bolt,  and  lay  the  guilty  low  ? 

How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  God  of  all, 

Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall  ? 

Air. 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 

Where  brooks  refreshing  stray  ; 

And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 

That  stop  the  hunter’s  way  : 

Thus  we,  0  Lord,  alike  distress  d, 

For  streams  of  mercy  long  ; 

Streams  which  cheer  the  sore  oppress’d, 

And  overwhelm  the  strong. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

But  whence  that  shout ?  Good  Heavens!  Anunrement 
all! 

See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 

Behold,  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 

Tis  Cyrus  here  that  pours  destruction  round  * 

And  now,  behold,  the  battlements  recline  — 

O  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  thine! 

15* 


174 


THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATORIO. 


CHORUS  OF  CAFTIVES. 

-Down  with  them,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust ; 

Thy  vengeance  be  begun ; 

Serve  them  as  they  have  served  the  just. 
And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

All,  all  is  lost !  The  Syrian  army  fails, 

Cyrus,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  prevails. 

The  ruin  smokes,  the  torrent  pours  along  — 

How  low  the  proud,  how  feeble  are  the  strong ! 

Save  us,  O  Lord  !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  pray ; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour’s  delay. 

Air. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  PRIEST. 

O  happy,  who  in  happy  hour 
To  God  their  praise  bestow, 

And  own  his  all-consuming  power 
Before  they  feel  the  blow ! 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Now,  now ’s  our  time !  ye  wretches,  bold  and  blind, 
Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 

Ye  seek  in  vain  the  Lord  unsought  before, 

Tour  wealth,  your  lives,  your  kingdom,  are  no  more 

Air. 

O  Lucifer,  thou  son  of  morn, 

Of  Heaven  alike,  and  man  the  foe,  — 
Heaven,  men,  and  all, 


"THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATORIO. 


)  5 


Now  press  thy  fall, 

\ji d  sink  thee  lowest  of  the  low. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

*.  Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen ! 

Thy  fall  more  dreadful  from  delay  i 
Thy  streets  forlorn, 

To  wilds  shall  turn. 

TV  by  e  toads  shall  pant  and  vultures  prey. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

Such  be  b*t  fate.  But  hark  !  how  from  afar 
The  clarions  note  proclaims  the  finish’d  war ! 

Our  gre^fc  restorer,  Cyrus,  is  at  hand, 

And  thm  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 

Give,  gi've  your  songs  of  Sion  to  the  wind, 

And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind : 

He  comes,  pursuant  to  divine  decree, 

To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  free. 

CHORUS  OF  YOUTHS. 

Rise  to  transports  past  expressing, 

Sweeter  by  remember’d  woes  ; 

Cyrus  comes,  our  wrongs  redressing, 
Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 

CHORUS  OF  VIRGINS. 

Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 

Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train ; 

Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 

Comes  to  soften  every  pain. 


I 


176  THE  captivity:  an  oratorio. 

SEMI-CHORUS 

Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 

Skill'd  in  every  peaceful  art ; 

Who,  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining, 
Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 

THE  LAST  CHORUS. 

But  chief  to  thee,  our  God,  defender,  friend, 
Let  praise  be  given  to  all  eternity  ; 

O  Thou,  without  beginning,  without  end, 

Let  us,  and  all,  begin  and  end  in  Thee ! 


LINES  ATTRIBUTED  TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

INSERTED  IN  THE  MORNING  CHRONICLE,  OF  ArRIL  3,  1800 

E’en  have  you  seen,  bathed  in  the  morning  dew, 

The  budding  rose  its  infant  bloom  display ; 

When  first  its  virgin  tints  unfold  to  view, 

It  shrinks,  and  scarcely  trusts  the  blaze  of  day : 

So  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sweet  she  came, 

Youth’s  damask  glow  just  dawning  on  her  cheek  ; 
l  gazed,  I  sigh’d,  1  caught  the  tender  flame, 

Felt  the  fond  pang,  and  droop’d  with  passion  weak. 


s 


THE 


GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

A  COMEDY. 

This  admirable  comedy  was  represented,  for  the  first  time,  at 
Covent  Garden,  January  29,  1768.  It  kept  possession  of  the  stage 
for  nine  nights,  but  was  considered  by  the  author’s  friends,  not  to 
have  met  with  all  the  success  it  deserved.  Dr.  Johnson  said  it 
was  the  best  comedy  which  had  appeared  since  ‘  T) le  Provoked 
Husband and  Burke  estimated  its  merits  still  higher. 

PREFACE. 

When  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess  I  was 
strongly  prepossessed  in  favor  of  the  poets  of  the  last  age,  and 
strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term  genteel  comedy,  was  then 
unknown  amongst  us,  and  little  more  was  desired  by  an  au- 
orence,  than  nature  and  humor,  m  whatever  walks  of  life  they 
were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the  following  scenes 
never  imagined  that  more  would  be  expected  of  him,  and 
therefore  to  delineate  character  has  been  his  principal  aim 
1  hose  who  know  anything  of  composition,  are  sensible  that  in 
pursuing  humor,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the  recesses  of 
the  mean  :  I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for  it  in  the  master 
of  a  sponging-house  ;  but,  in  deference  to  the  public  uiste  — 
grown  of  late,  perhaps,  too  delicate  —  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs 
was  retrenched  in  the  representation.  In  deference  also  to 
the  judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a  particular  way, 
the  scene  is  here  restored.  The  author  submits  it  to  the 
reader  in  his  closet ,  and  hopes  that  too  much  refinement  will 


« 


THE  GOOH-NATLJUED  HAN. 


not  banish  humor  and  character  from  ours,  as  it  has  already 
done  from  the  French  theatre.  Indeed,  the  French  comedy 
is  now  become  so  very  elevated  and  sentimental,  that  it  has 
not  only  banished  humor  and  Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it 
has  banished  all  spectators  too. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks  to  the  pub¬ 
lic,  for  the  favorable  reception  which  the  Good-Natured  Man 
has  met  with ;  and  to  Mr.  Colrnan  in  particular,  for  his  kind¬ 
ness  to  it.  It  may  not  also  be  improper  to  assure  any  who 
shall  hereafter  write  for  the  theatre,  that  merit,  or  suppose*! 
merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient  passport  to  his  protection. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAS. 
MEN. 

Mr.  Honeywood. 

Croaker. 

Lofty. 

Sir  William  Honcyioood. 
Leontine. 

Jarvis. 

Butler. 

Bailiff. 

Dubardieu. 

Postboy. 

WOMEN. 

Miss  Richland. 

Olivia. 

Mrs .  Croaker. 

Garnet. 

Landlady. 

Scene  —  London. 


THE 


GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN  BY  DR.  JOIINSON,  SFOKEN  BY  MR.  BEN  BLEY 

Press’d  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind, 

With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab’ring  train, 

And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain : 

Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint,  may  share 
This  bustling  season’s  epidemic  care, 

Like  Caesar’s  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 

Toss’d  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great ; 
Distress’d  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 

When  one  a  Borough  courts,  and  one  the  Pit. 

The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame 
Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same : 

Disabled  both  to  combat  or  to  fly, 

Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply  ; 
Uncheck’d,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 

As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 

Th’  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 

Foi  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 


180 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet’s  foes  dismiss, 

Till  that  glad  night  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
This  day,  the  powder’d  curls  and  golden  coat/ 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  ‘  begg’d  a  cobbler’s  vote/ 
This  night  our  wit/  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 

‘  Lies  at  my  feet — I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies.’ 

The  great,  ’tis  true,  can  charm  tli’  electing  tribe 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 

5Tet,  judged  by  those  whose  voices  ne’er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold ; 

But  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 

Trusts  without  fear  to  merit  and  to  you. 


ACT  FIRST. 

Scene — an  apartment  in  toung  honetwood’s  house 

Enter  Sir  William  Uoneywood  and  Jarvis. 

Sir  William.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  foi 
this  honest  bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours,  is  the  best 
excuse  for  every  freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can’t  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very  an¬ 
gry  too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so  good,  so 
worthy  a  young  gentleman  as  your  nephew,  my  master. 
All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  William.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the  world  ; 
that  is  his  fault. 

Jarvis.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear  to 
him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since  he 
was  a  child. 


THE  GOOD-NATUREl)  MAN. 


181 


Sir  William.  What  signifies  this  affection  to  me  ?  or 
how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart,  where  every 
sharper  and  coxcomb  find  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jarvis .  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good-natured  • 
that  he’s  too  much  every  man’s  man  ;  that  he  laughs  this 
minute  with  one,  and  cries  the  next  with  another :  but 
whose  instructions  may  he  thank  for  all  this  ? 

Sir  William.  Not  mine,  sure.  My  letters  to  him 
during  my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him  only  that 
philosophy  which  might  prevent,  not  defend,  his  errors. 

Jarvis.  Faith,  begging  your  honor’s  pardon,  I’m  sorry 
they  taught  him  any  philosophy  at  all :  it  has  only  served 
to  spoil  him.  This  same  philosophy  is  a  good  horse  in  a 
stable,  but  an  arrant  jade  on  a  journey.  For  my  own 
part,  whenever  I  hear  him  mention  the  name  on’t,  I’m 
always  sure  he’s  going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  William.  Don’t  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his 
philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good-nature 
arises  rather  from  his  fears  of  offending  the  importunate, 
than  his  desire  of  making  the  deserving  happy. 

Jarvis.  What  it  arises  from,  I  don’t  know ;  but,  to  bo 
sure,  everybody  has  it  that  asks  for  it. 

Sir  William.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have  been 
now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies,  and 
find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

Jarvis.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or  other 
for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance,  generosity ;  and 
his  trusting  everybody,  universal  benevolence.  It  was 
but  last  week  he  went  security  for  a  fellow  whose  face  he 
scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called  an  act  of  exalted  mu — < 
mu  —  munificence  ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he  gave  it. 

16 


182 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Sir  William.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last 
effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes,  to  reclaim  him. 
That  very  fellow  has  just  absconded,  and  I  have  taken  up 
the  security.  Now,  my  intention  is  to  involve  him  in  fic¬ 
titious  distress,  before  he  has  plunged  himself  into  real 
calamity :  to  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt,  to  clap  an 
officer  upon  him,  and  then  let  him  see  which  of  his  friends 
will  come  to  his  relief. 

Jarvis.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him  thor¬ 
oughly  vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be  music  to  me 
yet,  faith,  I  believe  it  impossible.  I  have  tried  to  fret 
him  myself  every  morning  these  three  years  ;  but  instead 
of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear  me  scold,  as  he 
does  to  his  hair  dresser. 

Sir  William.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  however, 
and  I’ll  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme  into  execution : 
and  I  don’t  despair  of  succeeding,  as,  by  your  means,  I 
can  have  frequent  opportunities  of  being  about  him  with¬ 
out  being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is,  Jarvis,  that  any 
man’s  good-will  to  others  should  produce  so  much  neglect 
of  himself,  as  to  require  correction !  Yet  we  must  touch 
his  weaknesses  with  a  delicate  hand.  There  are  some 
faults  so  nearly  allied  to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce 
weed  out  the  vice  without  eradicating  the  virtue.  \_Exii. 

Jarvis.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honey  wood. 
It  is  not  without  reason,  that  the  world  allows  thee  to  be 
the  best  of  men.  But  here  comes  his  hopeful  nephew 
— -  the  strange,  good-natured,  foolish,  open-hearted  —  And 
yet,  all  his  faults  are  such,  that  one  loves  him  still  the 
better  for  them. 


# 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


183 


Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my 
friends  this  morning  ? 

Jarvis.  You  have  no  friends. 

Honeywood.  Well,  from  my  acquaintance  then? 

Jarvis.  ( Pulling  out  bills.)  A  few  of  our  usual  cards 
of  compliment,  that’s  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor  ;  this 
from  your  mercer ;  and  this  from  the  little  broker  in  Crook¬ 
ed-lane.  He  says  he  has  been  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
to  get  back  the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeywood.  That  I  don’t  know ;  but  I  am  sure  we 
were  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it. 

Jarvis.  He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeywood.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There’s  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending  to 
the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet.  I  be¬ 
lieve  they  would  stop  his  mouth  for  a  while  at  least. 

Honeywood.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their  mouths 
in  the  mean  time  ?  Must  I  be  cruel,  because  he  happens 
to  be  importunate ;  and,  to  relieve  his  avarice,  leave  them 
to  insupportable  distress  ? 

Jarvis.  ’Sdeath !  sir,  the  question  now  is  how  to  re¬ 
lieve  yourself yourself.  Haven’t  I  reason  to  be  out 
of  my  senses,  when  I  see  things  going  at  sixes  and 
sevens  ? 

Honeywood.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for  being 
out  of  your  senses,  I  hope  you’ll  allow  that  I’m  not  quite 
unreasonable  for  continuing  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  You  are  the  omy  man  alive  in  your  present 
situation  that  could  do  so.  Every  thing  upon  the  waste. 


184 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


There ’s  Miss  Richland  and  her  fine  fortune  gone  already 
and  upon  the  point  of  being  given  to  your  rival. 

Honeywood.  I ’m  no  man’s  rival. 

Jarvis.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit 
you  ;  your  own  fortune  almost  spent ;  and  nothing  but 
pressing  creditors,  false  friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken 
servants  that  your  kindness  has  made  unfit  for  any  other 
family. 

Honeywood.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for 
being  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  Soli!  What  will  you  have  done  with  him 
that  I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry  ?  In  the 
fact  —  I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Honeywood.  In  the  fact?  If  so,  I  really  think  that 
we  should  pay  him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jarvis.  He  shall  be  turned  off  at  Tyburn,  the  dog , 
we  ’ll  hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of  the 
family. 

Honeywood.  No,  Jarvis :  it ’s  enough  that  we  have 
lost  what  he  has  stolen ;  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of  a 
fellow  creature ! 

Jarvis.  Very  fine!  well,  here  was  the  footman  just 
now,  to  complain  of  the  butler :  he  says  he  does  most 
work,  and  ought  to  have  most  wages. 

Honeywood.  That ’s  but  just ;  though  perhaps  here 
ttimes  the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  it ’s  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the  scul¬ 
lion  to  the  privy-councillor.  If  they  have  a  bad  master, 
they  keep  quarrelling  with  him ;  if  they  have  a  good  mas¬ 
ter,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  one  another. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


185 


Enter  Butler ,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I  ’ll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jonathan 
you  must  part  with  him,  or  part  with  me,  that  ’s  the  ex  — 
ex  —  exposition  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Honeywood.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what  a 
his  fault,  good  Philip  ? 

Butler.  Sir,  he ’s  given  to  drinking,  sir,  and  I  skaf 
have  my  morals  corrupted  by  keeping  such  company. 

Honeywood.  Ha !  ha !  lie  has  such  a  diverting  way  — 

Jarvis.  Oh,  quite  amusing. 

Butler.  I  find  my  wine ’s  a-going,  sir ;  and  liquors 
do  n’t  go  without  mouths,  sir —  I  hate  a  drunkard,  sir. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I  ’ll  hear  you  upoi. 
that  another  time  ;  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarvis.  To  bed !  let  him  go  to  the  devil. 

Butler.  Begging  your  honor’s  pardon,  and  begging 
your  pardon,  master  Jarvis,  I  ’ll  not  go  to  bed  nor  to  the 
devil  neither.  I  have  enough  to  do  to  mind  my  cel¬ 
lar.  I  forgot,  your  honor,  Mr.  Croaker  is  below.  I  came 
on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeywood.  Why  did  n’t  you  show  him  up,  block- 
nead. 

Butler.  Show  him  up,  sir  ?  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 
Up  or  down,  all ’s  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family  in  this 
house  from  morning  till  night.  He  comes  on  the  old 
affair,  I  suppose.  The  match  between  his  son,  that ’s  just 
returnfd  from  Paris,  and  Miss  Richland,  the  young  lady 
he  \s  guardian  to. 

Honeywood.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Croaker,  knowing  my 


186 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his  head  that 
I  can  persuade  her  to  what  I  please. 

Jarvis.  Ah !  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well  as 
she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that  would 
set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

Honeywood.  Love  me  !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream.  No, 
no ;  her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to  more  than 
friendship  —  mere  friendship.  That  she  is  the  most  love¬ 
ly  woman  that  ever  warmed  the  human  heart  with  desire, 
I  own :  but  never  let  me  harbor  a  thought  of  making  her 
unhappy,  by  a  connection  with  one  so  unworthy  her  mer¬ 
its  as  I  am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  serve 
her,  even  in  spite  of  my  wishes ;  and  to  secure  her  happi¬ 
ness,  though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jarvis.  Was  ever  the  like  ?  I  want  patience. 

Honeywood.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  obtain 
Miss  Richland’s  consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed 
with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker,  his  wife  ?  who,  though 
both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a  little  opposite  in 
their  dispositions,  you  know. 

Jarvis.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows !  the  very 
reverse  of  each  other :  she  all  laugh,  and  no  joke ;  he 
always  complaining,  and  never  sorrowful  —  a  fretful  poor 
60ul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every  hour  in  the  four- 
and-twenty  — 

Honeywood.  Hush,  hush !  he  ’s  coming  up,  he  ’ll  hear 
you. 

Jarvis.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing  bell  — 

Honeywood.  Well,  well;  go,  do. 

Jarvis.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief  —  a 
coffin  and  cross-bones  —  a  bundle  of  rue  —  a  sprig  of 


TTIF:  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


187 


deadly  nightshade  —  a  —  ( Honeywood ,  stopping  his  mouth , 
at  last  pushes  him  off.)  [ Exit  Jarvis. 

Honeywood.  I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not  entire¬ 
ly  wrong.  There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croaker’s 
conversation  that  quite  depresses  me.  His  very  mirth  is 
an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his  appearance  has  a  strong¬ 
er  effect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertaker’s  shop  —  Mr 
Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction  — 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honeywood,  and 
many  of  them.  How  is  this  ?  you  look  most  shockingly 
to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope  this  weather  does  not 
affect  your  spirits.  To  be  sure,  if  this  weather  continues 
—  I  say  nothing ;  but  God  send  we  be  all  better  this  day 
three  months  ! 

M 

Honeywood.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though,  I 
own,  not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  what 
weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours? 
taxes  rising  and  trade  falling :  money  flying  out  of  the 
kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming  into  it.  I  know,  at  this 
time,  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty-seven  Jesuits 
between  Charing  Cross  and  Temple  Bar. 

Honeywood.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  01 
me,  I  should  hope. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  whom 
thev  pervert,  in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any  religion  to 
lose  ?  I’m  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and  daughters. 

Honeywood.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies,  I 
assure  you. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


m 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies  whether . 
tliey  be  perverted  or  no  ?  The  women  in  my  time  were 
gcod  for  something.  I  have  seen  a  lady  drest  from  top 
to  toe  in  her  own  manufactures  formerly  ;  but  now-a-days, 
the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own  manufacture ’s  about  them, 
e  scept  their  faces. 

Honey  wood.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be  prac¬ 
tised  abroad,  you  don ’t  find  them  at  home,  either  with 
Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or  Miss  Richland? 

Croaker.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canonized 
for  a  saint  when  she ’s  dead. — By  the  by,  my  dear  friend, 

I  do  n’t  find  this  match  between  Miss  Richland  and  my 

son  much  relished,  either  bv  one  side  or  t’  other. 

'  */ 

Iloneyivood.  I  thought  otherwise. 

Croaker.  Ah !  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your  fine 
serious  advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far:  I  know 
she  has  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your  understanding. 

Honeywood.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an  au¬ 
thority,  that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my 
authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed,  because  they 
see  me  come  out  in  the  morning  thus,  with  a  pleasant  face, 
and  to  make  my  friends  merry,  that  all ’s  well  within. 
But  I  have  cares  that  would  break  a  heart  of  stone.  My 
wife  has  so  encroached  upon  every  one  of  my  privileges, 
that  I ’m  now  no  more  than  a  mere  lodger  in  my  own 
house. 

Honeywood.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side 
might  perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croaker.  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion  !  I  do 
rouse  sometimes ;  but  what  then  ?  always  haggling  and 


.  .  Indeed,  Mr.  Honey  wood,  I  never  see  you  but  ycvrj 
put  me  in  mind  of  poor  Dick.— p.  189. 


Croak  ei 


tfttc  good-natured  man. 


189 


naggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting  the  better,  before 
his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  victory. 

Honeywood.  It ’s  a  melancholy  consideration,  indeed, 
that  our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our  greatest  anxie¬ 
ties,  and  that  an  increase  of  our  possessions  is  but  an  inlet 
to  new  disquietudes. 

Croaker .  Ah!  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the  very 
words  of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me,  not  a  week  before  he 
made  away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr.  Honeywood,  I 
never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind  of  poor  Dick. 
Ah !  there  was  merit  neglected  for  you ;  and  8t>  true  a 
friend !  we  loved  each  other  for  thirty  years,  and  yet  he 
never  asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single  farthing. 

Honeywood.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  commit 
so  rash  an  action  at  last  ? 

Croaker.  I  do  n’t  know  :  some  people  were  malicious 
enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me  ;  because 
we  used  to  meet  now  and  then,  and  open  our  hearts  to 
each  other.  To  be  sure,  I  loved  to  hear  him  talk,  and  he 
loved  to  hear  me  talk  ;  poor  dear  Dick !  He  used  to  say 
that  Croaker  rhymed  to  joker  ;  and  so  we  used  to  laugh 
— -  P oor  Dick  !  £  Going  to  cry. 

Honeywood.  His  fate  affects  me. 

Croaker.  Ah  !  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life, 
where  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress  and 
undress,  get  up  and  lie  down  ;  while  reason,  that  should 
watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side,  falls  as  fast  asleep  as 
we  do. 

Honeywood.  To  say  a  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part 
of  life  which  is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have  past,  the 
prospect  is  hideous. 


£90 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Croaker.  Life,  at  the  greatest  and  best,  is  but  a  frow 
ard  child,  that  must  be  humored  and  coaxed  a  little  till  it 
falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care  is  over. 

Honcywood.  Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the 
vanity  of  our  existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits.  We 
wept  when  we  came  into  the  world,  and  every  day  tells 
us  why. 

Croaker.  Ah  !  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satisfac¬ 
tion  to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine  shan’t 
lose  the  benefit  of  such  fine  conversation.  I  ’ll  just  step 
home  for  him.  I  am  willing  to  show  him  so  much  serious¬ 
ness  in  one  scarce  older  than  himself.  And  what  if  I 
bring  my  last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer,  on  the  increase  and 
progress  of  earthquakes  ?  It  will  amuse  us,  I  promise 
you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late  earthquake  is  coming 
round  to  pay  us  another  visit  —  from  London  to  Lisbon 
—  from  Lisbon  to  the  Canary  Islands  — from  the  Canary 
Islands  to  Palmyra — from  Palmyra  to  Constantinople, 
and  so  from  Constantinople  back  to  London  again.  [Exit. 

Honeywood.  Poor  Croaker  !  his  situation  deserves  the 
utmost  pity.  I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits  these  three 
days.  Sure,  to  live  upon  such  terms,  is  worse  than  death 
itself.  And  yet,  when  I  consider  my  own  situation  —  a 
broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  passion,  friends  in  distress,  the 
wish,  but  not  the  power  to  serve  them — — ■ 


[Pausing  and  sighing. 


Enter  Butler. 

Butler.  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker  and 
M  iss  Richland  ;  shall  I  show  them  up  ?  —  but  they  ’re 


diowing  up  themselves. 


THE  GOOH-^A'rUlvED  MAN. 


191 


Enter  Mrs .  Croaker  and  Miss  Ricldand. 

Miss  Ricldand.  Tou  ’re  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Honey 
wood,  from  the  auction.  There  was  the  old  deaf  dowa¬ 
ger,  a3  usual,  bidding  like  a  fury  against  herself.  And 
then  so  curious  in  antiquities !  herself,  the  most  genuine 
piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole  collection. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness 
from  friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good  hu¬ 
mor  :  I  know  you  ’ll  pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if  he 
had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning.  Well,  if 
Richland  here  can  pardon  you,  I  must. 

Miss  Ricldand.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate,  madam, 
that  I  have  particular  reasons  for  being  disposed  to  re¬ 
fuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear,  do  n’t 
be  so  ready  to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Ricldand.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr.  Honey- 
wood  s  long  friendship  and  mine  should  be  misunderstood, 

Honeywood.  There ’s  no  answering  for  others,  madam. 
But  I  hope  you  ’ll  never  find  me  presuming  to  offer  more 
than  the  most  delicate  friendship  may  readily  allow. 

Miss  Ricldand.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a 
tribute  from  you,  than  the  most  passionate  professions 
from  others. 

Honeywood.  My  own  sentiments,  madam :  friendship 
is  a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals ;  love,  an 
abject  intercourse  between  tyrants  and  slaves. 

Miss  Ricldand.  And  without  a  compliment,  I  know 


192 


THE  GOOD-NATUltED  MAH'. 


none  more  disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship 
than  Mr.  Homey  wood. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that  has 
more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss  Fruzz, 
Miss  Oddbody,  and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise  him  in  all 
companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy  Bundle,  she ’s  his  pro¬ 
fessed  admirer. 

Miss  Richland.  Indeed  !  an  admirer !  —  I  did  not 
know,  sir,  you  were  such  a  favorite  there.  But  is  she 
seriously  so  handsome  ?  Is  she  the  mighty  thing  talked 
of? 

Honeywood.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to 
praise  a  lady’s  beauty,  till  she ’s  beginning  to  lose  it. 

[Smiling. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  she’s  resolved  never  to  lose  it,  it 
seems.  I  or  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill  improves 
in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well,  nothing  diverts  me 
more  than  one  of  those  fine,  old,  dressy  things,  who  thinks 
to  conceal  her  age  by  every  where  exposing  her  person ; 
sticking  herself  up  in  the  front  of  a  side-box ;  trailing 
through  a  minuet  at  Almack’s,  and  then,  in  the  public 
gardens  - —  looking,  for  all  the  world,  like  one  of  the  paint¬ 
ed  ruins  of  the  place. 

Honeywood.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies.  While 
you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer  climates  of 
youth,  there  ought  to  be  some  to  carry  on  a  useful  com¬ 
merce  in  the  frozen  latitudes  beyond  fifty. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they 
must  suffer,  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic.  ] 
have  seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole  morning  at  her  hair  ^ 
dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 


s 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


193 


Honeywood.  And  yet,  I  ’ll  engage,  has  carried  that 
face  at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This  good-natured 
town,  madam,  has  husbands,  like  spectacles,  to  lit  every 
age  from  fifteen  to  fourscore. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  you  ’re  a  dear  good-natured  crea¬ 
ture.  But  you  know  you’re  engaged  with  us  this  morn¬ 
ing  upon  a  strolling  party.  I  want  to  show  Olivia  the 
town,  and  the  things :  I  believe  I  shall  have  business  for 
you  the  whole  day. 

Honeywood.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appoint¬ 
ment  with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to  put  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What!  with  my  husband?  then  I’m 
resolved  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you  must. 
You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as  with  you. 

Honeywood.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I  ’ll  swear  you 
have  put  me  into  such  spirits.  Well,  do  you  find  jest, 
and  I  ’ll  find  laugh,  I  promise  you.  We  ’ll  wait  for  the 
chariot  in  the  next  room.  \Exeunt 

Enter  Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Leontine.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy.  My 
dearest  Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you  capable  of 
sharing  in  their  amusements,  and  as  cheerful  as  they  are ! 

Olivia.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheerful, 
when  I  have  so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  ?  The  fear 
of  being  detected  by  this  family,  and  the  apprehensions 
of  a  censuring  world,  when  I  must  be  detected - 

Leontine.  The  world,  my  love !  what  can  it  say  ?  At 
worst  it  can  only  say,  that,  being  compelled  by  a  merce¬ 
nary  guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  disliked,  you  formed 
a  resolution  of  flying  with  the  man  of  your  choice;  that 


194 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


you  confided  in  liis  honor,  and  took  refuge  in  my  father's 
house,  —  the  only  one  where  yours  could  remain  without 
censure. 

Olivia.  But  consider,  Leon  tine,  your  disobedience, 
ai.d  my  indiscretion ;  your  being  sent  to  France  to  bring 
home  a  sister,  and,  instead  of  a  sister,  bringing  home - * 

Leontine.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One 
that  I  am  convinced  will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest  of  the 
family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

Olivia.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leontine.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think  proper 
to  make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has  been 
with  her  aunt,  at  Lyons,  since  she  was  a  child,  and  you 
find  every  creature  in  the  family  takes  you  for  her. 

Olivia.  But  may  n’t  she  write,  may  n’t  her  aunt  write  ? 

Leontine.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my 
sister’s  letters  are  directed  to  me. 

Olivia.  But  won’t  your  refusing  Miss  Richland,  for 
whom  you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you,  create  a 
suspicion  ? 

Leontine.  There,  there ’s  my  master-stroke.  I  have 
resolved  not  to  refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I  have 
consented  to  go  with  my  father  to  make  her  an  ofTer  of 
my  heart  and  fortune. 

Olivia.  Your  heart  and  fortune  ? 

Leontine.  Do  n’t  be  alarmed,  my  dearest.  Can  Olivia 
think  so  meanly  of  my  honor,  or  my  love,  as  to  suppose 
I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness  from  any  but  her  ?  Ho, 
my  Olivia,  neither  the  force,  nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the 
delicacy  of  my  passion,  leave  any  room  to  suspect  me.  I 
uiilj  offer  Miss  Richland  a  heart  1  am  convinced  site  will 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN, 


19/5 

refuse:  as  I  am  confident,  that,  without  knowing  it,  Jer 
affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honey  wood. 

Olivia.  Mr.  Honey  wood !  You  ’ll  excuse  my  appre¬ 
hensions  ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be  put  in  the 
balance - 

Leontine.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality* 
However,  by  making  this  offer,  I  show  a  seeming  compli¬ 
ance  with  my  father’s  command ;  and  perhaps,  upon  her 
refusal,  I  may  have  his  consent  to  choose  for  myself. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine,  1 
own,  I  shall  envy  her  even  your  pretended  addresses.  I 
consider  every  look,  every  expression  of  your  esteem,  as 
due  only  to  me.  This  is  folly,  perhaps  ;  I  allow  it ;  but 
it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  merit  \i  liich  has  made  an 
impression  on  one’s  own  heart  may  be  powerful  over  that 
of  another. 

Leontine.  Do  n’t,  my  life’s  treasure,  do  n’t  let  us  make 
imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so  many  real 
ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you  know,  if  Miss  Rich¬ 
land  should  consent,  or  my  father  refuse  his  pardon,  it 
can  but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland ;  and - 

j Enter  Croaker * 

OroaJcer.  Where  have  you  been,  boy  ?  I  have  been 
seeking  you.  My  friend  Honey  wood  here  has  been  say¬ 
ing  such  comfortable  things !  Ah  !  he ’s  an  example  in¬ 
deed.  Where  is  he  ?  I  left  him  here. 

Leontine .  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and  hear 
him  too,  in  the  next  room:  he ’s  preparing  to  go  out  with 
the  ladies. 

*\oaker.  Good  gracious!  can  I  ?  elieve  my  eyes  or 


196 


TIIE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


my  ears  ;  I ’m  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and  stunned 
with  the  loudness  of  his  laugh.  Was  there  ever  such  a 
transformation !  (a  laugh  behind  the  scenes ,  Croaker  mim¬ 
ics  it.)  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  there  it  goes ;  a  plague  take  their 
balderdash  !  yet  I  could  expect  nothing  less,  when  my 
precious  wife  was  of  the  party.  On  my  conscience,  1 
believe  she  could  spread  a  horse-laugh  through  the  pews 
of  a  tabernacle. 

Leontine .  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a  wife, 
sir,  how  can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recommending  one  to 
me  ? 

Croaker.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy,  that 
Miss  Richland’s  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the  family  ; 
one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money,  whatever  one  does  in 
the  wife. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  though  in  obedience  to  your  desire, 
1  am  ready  to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible  she  has  no 
inclination  to  me. 

Croaker.  I  ’ll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands.  A 
good  part  of  Miss  Richland’s  large  fortune  consists  in  a 
claim  upon  government,  which  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Lofty, 
assures  me  the  Treasury  will  allow.  One  half  of  this 
she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father’s  will,  in  case  she  refuses  to 
marry  you.  So,  if  she  rejects  you,  we  seize  half  her  for¬ 
tune  ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine 
girl  into  the  bargain. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  if  you  will  listen  to  reason - 

Croaker.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I  tell 
you,  I ’m  fixed,  determined  —  so  now  produce  your  rea* 
sons.  When  1  am  determined,  I  always  listen  to  reason 
because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


197 

Leontine.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice  was 
the  first  requisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croaker.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mutual 
choice.  She  has  her  choice,  — -  to  marry  you  or  lose  half 
her  fortune  ;  and  you  have  your  choice,  —  to  marry  her, 
or  pack  out  of  doors  without  any  fortune  at  all. 

Leontine.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more  indul¬ 
gence. 

Croaker.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience  ;  besides,  has  not  your  sister  here,  that  never 
disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as  you  ?  He ’s 
a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would  take  all  from  you 
But  he  shan’t,  I  tell  you  he  shan’t ;  for  you  shall  have 
your  share. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  I  wish  you ’d  be  convinced,  that  I 
can  never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune,  which 
is  taken  from  his. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  it ’s  a  good  child,  so  sa)  ^o  more  ; 
but  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  see  something  that  will 
give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  J  promise  you,  —  old 
Huggins,  the  currycomb  maker,  lying  in  state ,  I  am  told 
lie  makes  a  very  handsome  corpse,  and  becomes  his  coffin 
prodigiously.  lie  was  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  and 
ffiese  are  friendly  things  we  ought  to  do  for  each  other 

["  Exeunt 


17* 


198 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene  —  Croaker's  House. 

Miss  Richland ,  Garnet . 

Miss  Richland.  Olivia  not  his  sister!  Olivia  no! 
Leon  tine’s  sister?  You  amaze  me. 

Garnet.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am ;  I  had  it  all 
from  his  own  servant:  I  can  get  anything  from  that 
quarter. 

Miss  Richland .  But  how  ?  Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  instead 
of  going  to  Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sistei,  who  has  been 
there  with  her  aunt  these  ten  years,  he  never  went  farther 
than  Paris  ;  there  he  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  this  young 
lady  —  by  the  by,  of  a  prodigious  family. 

Miss  Richland.  And  brought  her  home  to  my  guardi¬ 
an  as  his  daughter? 

Garnet.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he 
don’t  consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying  what 
a  Scotch  parson  can  do. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived  me. 
And  so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it  too !  —  Would  you 
believe  it,  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my  secrets ;  and  yet  the 
ily  cheat  concealed  all  this  from  me  ! 

Garnet.  And,  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  do  n’t  much 
blame  her :  she  was  loath  to  trust  one  with  her  secrets, 
that  was  so  very  bad  at  keeping  her  own. 

d/iss  Richland.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the  young 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


199 


gentleman,  it  seems,  pretends  to  make  me  serious  propo* 
sals.  My  guardian  and  he  are  to  be  here  presently,  to 
open  the  affair  in  form.  You  know  I  am  to  lose  half  my 
fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Garnet.  Yet,  what  can  you  do?  For  being,  as  yobi 
are,  in  love  with  Mr.  Honey  wood,  madam  - - 

Miss  Richland.  How !  idiot,  what  do  you  mean  ?  In 
love  with  Mr.  Honey  wood !  Is  this  to  provoke  me  ? 

Garnet.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him :  I 
meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to  be  mar¬ 
ried  —  nothing  more. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  no  more  of  this.  As  to  my 
guardian  and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to  re¬ 
ceive  them  :  I ’m  resolved  to  accept  their  proposal  with 
seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by  compliance,  and  so 
throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Garnet.  Delicious !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole 
fortune  to  yourself.  Well,  who  could  have  thought  so  in¬ 
nocent  a  face  could  cover  so  much  ’cuteness  ! 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  prudence 
to  their  cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have  taught 
me  against  themselves. 

Garnet.  Then  you  ’re  likely  not  long  to  want  employ¬ 
ment,  for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  Croaker  and  Leontine. 

Leontine.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate  upon 
the  point  of  putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a  question. 

Croaker.  Lord !  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears ;  you  ’re 
bo  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had  changed 
sexes.  I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half  or  the  whole 


?00 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit  you  begin :  "Well,  why 
do  n’t  you?  Eh!  What?  Well  then,  I  must,  it  seems  — 
Miss  Richland,  my  dear,  I  believe  you  guess  at  our  busi¬ 
ness  ;  an  affair  which  ray  son  here  comes  to  open,  that 
nearly  concerns  your  happiness. 

Miss  Richland .  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to  be 
pleased  with  any  thing  that  comes  recommended  by  you. 

Croaker.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer  opening  ? 
Why  do  n’t  you  begin,  I  say  ?  \To  Leontine . 

Leontine.  ’Tis  true,  madam  —  my  father,  madam  — • 
bas  some  intentions — hem  —  of  explaining  an  affair, — 
which  —  himself  can  best  explain,  madam. 

Croaker.  Yes,  my  dear ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my 
son ;  it ’s  all  a  request  of  his  own,  madam.  And  I  will 
permit  him  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leontine.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam  :  my 
father  has  a  proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists  none  but 
himself  shall  deliver. 

Croaker.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will  never 
be  brought  on.  ( Aside.)  In  short,  madam,  you  see  be¬ 
fore  you  one  that  loves  you  —  one  whose  whole  happi¬ 
ness  is  all  in  you. 

Miss  Richland.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your  ro 
gard,  sir;  and  I  hope  you  can  have  none  of  my  duty. 

Croaker.  That’s  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting— 
My  love !  no,  no,  another  guess  lover  than  I :  there  he 
stands,  madam ;  his  very  looks  declare  the  force  of  his 
passion  —  Cali  up  a  look,  you  dog  !  (Aside.)  But  then, 
had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping,  speaking  soliloquies 
and  blank  verse,  sometimes  melancholy,  and  sometimes 
absent- — 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


201 


Miss  Richland.  I  fear,  sir,  he ’s  absent  now ;  or  such 
a  declaration  would  have  come  most  properly  fiom  him* 

self. 

Croaker.  Himself!  Madam,  he  would  die  before  he 
could  make  such  a  confession ;  and  if  he  had  not  a  chan¬ 
nel  for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would  ere  now  have 
drowned  his  understanding. 

Miss  Richland.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attractions 
in  modest  diffidence  above  the  force  of  words.  A  silent 
address  is  the  genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity. 

Croaker.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other 
language  ;  silence  is  become  his  mother-tongue. 

Miss  Richland.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it  speaks 
very  powerfully  in  his  favor.  And  yet  I  shall  be  thought 
too  forward  in  making  such  a  confession  ;  shan’t  I,  Mr. 
Leontine  ? 

Leontine.  Confusion  !  my  reserve  will  undo  me.  But, 

< 

if  modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust  her.  I  ’ll 
try.  ( Aside.)  Do  n’t  imagine  from  my  silence,  madam, 
that  I  want  a  due  sense  of  the  honor  and  happiness  in¬ 
tended  me.  My  father,  madam,  tells  me  your  humble 
servant  is  not  totally  indifferent  to  you  —  he  admires  you : 
I  adore  you  ;  and  when  we  come  together,  upon  my  soul, 
[  believe  we  shall  be  the  happiest  couple  in  all  SL 
James’s. 

Miss  Richland.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  ^ou  thought 
as  you  speak,  sir - 

Leontine.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your 
dear  self  I  swrear.  Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory  1 
ask  cowards  if  they  covet  safety - 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it 


202 


TIIE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Leontine.  Ask  tlie  sick  if  they  long  for  health  ask 
raisers  if  they  love  money  ?  ask - 

Croaker.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense  ?  What’s 
come  over  the  boy  ?  What  signifies  asking,  when  there’s 
not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer?  If  you  would  ask  to 
the  purpose,  ask  this  lady’s  consent  to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon  ardor 
almost  compels  me  —  forces  me  to  comply.  And  yet  I’m 
afraid  he  ’ll  despise  a  conquest  gained  with  too  much  ease ; 
won’t  you,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leontine.  Confusion !  (Aside.)  Oh,  by  no  means, 
madam,  by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talked  ol 
force.  There  is  nothing  I  would  avoid  so  much  as  com¬ 
pulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind.  No,  madam,  I  will  still 
be  generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to  refuse. 

Croaker.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at  liberty 
It  *s  a  match.  You  see  she  says  nothing.  Silence  gives 
consent. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.  Consider,  sir, 
the  cruelty  of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croaker.  But  I  say  there ’s  no  cruelty.  Do  n’t  you 
know,  blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a  round-about 
way  of  saying  yes  before  company  ?  So  get  you  both 
gone  together  into  the  next  room,  and  hang  him  that  in¬ 
terrupts  the  tender  explanations.  Get  you  gone,  I  say 
I  ’ll  not  hear  a  word. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist - 

Croaker.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I  ’ll  beg  leave  to  in¬ 
sist  upon  knocking  you  down.  Stupid  whelp !  But  I 
do  n’t  wonder :  the  boy  takes  entirely  after  his  mother. 

[~  Exeunt  Miss  Richland  and  Leontine 


\ 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


203 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  something 
«qv  dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croaker.  I  ’ll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  letter ;  and  as  I  knew  the  hand,  I 
ventured  to  open  it. 

Croaker.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking 
open  my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Pooh !  it ’s  from  your  sister  at  Lyons, 
and  contains  good  news :  read  it. 

Croaker.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here !  That 
sister  of  mine  has  some  good  qualities  ;  but  I  could  never 
teach  her  to  fold  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Croa/cer.  Fold  a  fiddlestick!  Read  what  it  con¬ 
tains. 

Croaker  ( reading ). 

*  Dear  Nick,  —  An  English  gentleman,  of  large  for 
tune,  has  for  some  time  made  private,  though  honorable, 
proposals  to  your  daughter  Olivia.  They  love  each  other 
tenderly,  and  I  find  she  has  consented,  without  letting  any 
of  the  family  know,  to  crown  his  addresses.  As  such 
good  offers  do  n’t  come  every  day,  your  own  good  sense, 
his  large  fortune,  and  family  considerations,  will  induce 
you  to  forgive  her.  Yours  ever, 

Rachael  Croaker. 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  ot  large 
fortune!  This  is  good  news  indeed.  My  heart  never 
foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how  slily  the  little  baggage 
has  carried  it  since  she  came  home ;  not  a  word  on  t  to 


204 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


the  old  ones  for  the  world.  Yet  I  thought  I  saw  some 
thing  she  wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  then 
amour,  they  shan’t  conceal  their  wedding ;  that  shall  be 
public,  I ’m  resolved. 

Croaker.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the  most 
foolish  part  of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never  get  this  woman 
to  think  of  the  most  serious  part  of  the  nuptial  engage¬ 
ment, 

Mrs.  Croaker .  What!  would  you  have  me  think  of 
their  funeral  ?  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  do  n’t  you 
owe  more  to  me  than  you  care  to  confess?  —  Would  you 
have  ever  been  known  to  Mr.  Lofty,  who  has  undertaken 
Miss  Bichland’s  claim  at  the  Treasury,  but  for  me  ?  Who 
was  it  first  made  him  an  acquaintance  at  Lady  Shabba- 
roon’s  rout.  Who  got  him  to  promise  us  his  interest? 
Is  not  he  a  back-stair  favorite  —  one  that  can  do  what  he 
pleases  with  those  that  do  what  they  please  ?  Is  not  he 
an  acquaintance  that  all  your  groaning  and  lamentations 
could  never  have  got  us. 

Croaker.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you. 
And  yet  what  amazes  me  is,  that,  while  he  is  giving 
away  places  to  all  the  world,  he  can ’t  get  one  for  him¬ 
self. 

Mrs .  Croaker.  That  perhaps,  may  be  owing  to  his 
nicety.  Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 

Enter  French  Semant. 

Servant.  Am  expresse  from  Monsieur  Lofty.  He  vil 
be  vait  upon  your  honors  instammant.  He  be  only  giv¬ 
ing  four  five  instruction,  read  two  tree  memorial,  call 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


205 


upon  von  ambassadeur.  lie  vil  be  vid  you  in  one 
tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  You  see  now,  m3'  dear.  What  an  ex¬ 
tensive  department !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master 
know  that  we  are  extremely  honored  by  this  honor. 
Was  there  anything  ever  in  a  higher  style  of  breeding  ? 
All  messages  among  the  great  are  now  done  b}^  express. 

[ 'Exit  French  servant. 

Croaker .  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things 
with  more  solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect  than  he. 
But  he’s  in  the  right  on’t.  I11  our  bad  world,  respect 
is  given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear ; 
3rou  were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life. 
Let  us  now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper  re¬ 
spect,  (a-  loud  rapping  at  the  door,)  and  there  he  is, 
by  the  thundering  rap. 

Croaker.  Ay,  verity,  there  lie  is  !  as  close  upon  the 
heels  of  his  own  express,  as  an  endorsement  upon 
the  back  of  a  bill.  Well,  I’ll  leave  you  to  receive  him, 
whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia  for  intending  to 
steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her  aunt’s  consent. 
I  must  seem  to  be  angr}^  or  she  too  may  begin  to 
despise  m}r  authority.  [Exit. 

Enter  Lofty ,  speaking  to  his  Servant. 

Lofty.  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or  that  leas¬ 
ing  creature,  the  Marquis,  should  call,  I’m  not  at  home. 
Damme,  I’ll  be  pack-horse  to  none  of  them. — My  dear 
madam,  I  have  just  snatched  a  moment  — And  if  the  ex- 

18 


206 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


presses  to  his  Grace  be  ready,  let  them  be  sent  off ;  thej 
re  of  importance.  —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  this  honor  — — 

Lofty.  And,  Dubardieu  !  if  the  person  calls  about  the 
commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out.  As  for 
Lord  Cumbercourt’s  stale  request,  it  can  keep  cold :  you 
understand  me.  —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  this  honor - 

Lofty.  And  Dubardieu  !  if  the  man  comes  from  the 
Cornish  borough,  you  must  do  him ;  you  must  do  him,  I 
say  —  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons.  —  And  if  the 
Russian  ambassador  calls  ;  but  he  will  scarce  call  to-day, 
I  believe.  —  And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  got  time  to  ex¬ 
press  my  happiness  in  having  the  honor  of  being  permit¬ 
ted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient,  humble  servant. 

Mrs  Croaker.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honor  are  all 
mine  ;  and  yet,  I’m  only  robbing  the  public  while  I  de¬ 
tain  you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are  to 
be  attended.  Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charmingly 
devoted !  Sincerely,  don’t  you  pity  us  poor  creatures  in 
affairs  ?  Thus  it  is  eternally  ;  solicited  for  places  here, 
teased  for  pensions  there,  and  courted  everywhere.  I 
know  you  pity  me.  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Excuse  me,  sir, 4  Toils  of  empires  pleas¬ 
ures  are,’  as  Waller  says. 

Lofty.  Waller  —  Waller;  is  he  of  the  House? 

Mrs .  Croaker.  The  modern  poet  of  that  name,  sir. 

Lofty.  Oh,  a  modern  !  We  men  of  business  despise 
the  moderns  !  and  as  for  the  ancients,  we  have  no  time 
t.o  read  them.  Poetry  is  a  pretty  thing  enough  for  our 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


2(tt’ 


wives  and  daughters  ;  but  not  for  us.  Why  now,  here  \ 
stand  that  know  nothing  of  books.  I  say,  madam,  I  know 
nothing  of  books  ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  upon  a  land-carriage 
fishery,  a  stamp  act,  or  a  jaghire,  I  can  talk  my  two  hours 
without  feeling  the  want  of  them. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr.  Lofty's 
eminence  in  every  capacity. 

Lofty.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush.  I’m 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world ;  a  mere  obscure 
gentleman.  To  be  sure,  indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  ministers  are  pleased  to  represent  me  as  a  formidable 
man.  I  know  they  are  pleased  to  bespatter  me  at  all 
their  little,  dirty  levees.  Yet,  upon  my  soul,  I  wonder 
what  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  &o  !  Measures,  not  men, 
have  always  been  my  mark  :  and  I  vow,  by  all  that’s 
honorable,  my  resentment  has  never  done  the  men,  as 
mere  men,  any  manner  of  harm  —  that  is,  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  importance,  and  yet  what  mod 
esty ! 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there,  I 
own,  I’m  accessible  to  praise :  modesty  is  my  foible :  it 
was  so  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to  say  of  me.  4 1  love 
Jack  Lofty,’  he  used  to  say, 4  no  man  has  a  finer  knowl¬ 
edge  of  things ;  quite  a  man  of  information ;  and  when 
he  speaks  upon  his  legs,  by  the  Lord,  he’s  prodigious  — 
he  scouts  them ;  and  yet  all  men  have  their  faults ;  too 
much  modesty  is  his,’  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  you  don’t  want  as¬ 
surance  when  you  come  to  solicit  for  your  friends. 

Lofty.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I’m  in  bronze.  Apropos! 
I  have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland’s  case  to  a 


208 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


certain  personage ;  we  must  name  no  names.  When  ] 
ask,  I’m  rot  to  be  put  off,  madam.  No,  no,  I  take  my 
friend  by  the  button.  A  line  girl,  sir ;  great  justice  in 
her  case.  A  friend  of  mine.  Borough  interest.  Busi¬ 
ness  must  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  I  say,  Mr.  Secretary, 
her  business  must  be  done,  sir.  That’s  my  way,  madam. 

Mrs.  Croaker .  Bless  me  !  you  said  all  this  to  the  Sec¬ 
retary  of  State,  did  you  ? 

Lofty.  I  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I  ?  Well,  curse 
it,  since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not  deny  it,  —  it 
was  to  the  Secretary. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain-head 
at  once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr.  Hon- 
eywood  would  have  had  us. 

Lofty.  Honeywood !  he  1  he  !  He  was  indeed  a  fine 
solicitor.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  just  hap¬ 
pened  to  him  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker .  Poor,  dear  man  !  no  accident,  I  hope  ? 

Lofty.  Undone,  madam,  that  ’s  all.  His  creditors 
have  taken  him  into  custody  —  a  prisoner  in  his  own 
house. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house !  How  ? 
At  this  very  time  ?  I’m  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Lofty.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was  im¬ 
mensely  good-natured.  But  then,  I  could  never  find  that 
he  had  anything  in  him. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  excessive 
harmless ;  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull.  For  my 
part,  I  always  concealed  my  opinion. 

Lofty.  It  can’t  be  concealed,  madam  ;  the  man  was 
4ull  dull  as  the  last  new  comedy  !  a  poor,  impractica- 


<v 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


20b 


ole  creature  !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to  know  if  ne  was  tit 
for  business;  but  he  had  scarce  talents  to  be  groom-por 
ter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland 
think  of  him  !  For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults,  she  loves 
him. 

Lofty.  Loves  him  !  does  she  ?  You  should  cure  her 
of  that  by  all  means.  Let  me  see  ;  what  if  she  were  sent 
to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present  doleful  situation  ?  My 
life  for  it,  that  works  her  cure.  Distress  is  a  perfect  anti¬ 
dote  to  love.  Suppose  we  join  her  in  the  next  room  ? 
Miss  Richland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a  fine  fortune,  and  must 
not  be  thrown  away.  Upon  my  honor,  madam,  I  have  a 
regard  for  Miss  Richland ;  and,  rather  than  she  should  be 
thrown  away  I  should  think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her 
myself.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Leontine. 

Leontine.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every  rea¬ 
son  to  expect  Miss  Richland’s  refusal,  as  I  did  everything 
in  my  power  to  deserve  it.  Her  indelicacy  surprises  me. 

Olivia.  Sure,  Leontine,  there ’s  nothing  so  indelicate 
in  being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I  fear  I  shall  be 
the  most  guilty  thing  alive. 

Leontine.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same  at¬ 
tention  I  used  to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  practised 
to  lessen  it  with  her.  What  more  could  I  do  ? 

Olivia.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be  done. 
W  e  have  both  dissembled  too  long.  I  have  always  been 
ashamed  —  I  am  now  quite  weary  of  it.  Sure,  I  could 
never  have  undergone  so  much  for  any  other  but  you. 

IS* 


210 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Leontine.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to 
your  kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends  should  to¬ 
tally  forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw  upon  content  for 
the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Olivia.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  ot 
humble  happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power  ?  I  may 
be  the  favorite  of  your  father,  it  is  true  ;  but  can  it  ever 
be  thought,  that  his  present  kindness  to  a  supposed  child, 
will  continue  to  a  known  deciever  ? 

Leontine.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will.  As 
his  attachments  are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His  own 
marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may  be.  Besides,  1 
have  sounded  him  already  at  a  distance,  and  find  all  his 
answers  exactly  to  our  wish.  Nay,  by  an  expression  or 
two  that  dropped  from  him,  I  am  induced  to  think  he  knows 
of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Indeed!  But  that  would  be  a  happiness  too 
great  too  be  expected. 

Leontine.  However  it  be,  I’m  certain  you  have  power 
over  him  ;  and  am  persuaded,  if  you  informed  him  of  our 
situation,  that  he  would  be  disposed  to  pardon  it. 

Olivia.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine,  from 
your  last  scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which  you  find  has 
succeeded  most  wretchedly. 

J^eontine.  And  that ’s  the  best  reason  for  trying  an¬ 
other. 

Olivia.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leontine.  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  way. 
Now,  my  dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I’ll  just  retire  with¬ 
in  hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time,  either  to  ahare 
your  danger,  or  confirm  your  victory.  [ Exit 


\ 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


211 


Enter  Croaker . 

Croaker.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her;  and  jet  not  too 
easily,  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  deco¬ 
rums  of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to  impress  her 
with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olivia.  Plow  I  tremble  to  approach  him !  —  Might  1 
presume,  sir  —  if  I  interrupt  you - 

Croaker.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection,  it  is 
not  a  little  thing  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets  over 
little  things. 

Olivia.  Sir,  you  ’re  too  kind.  I ’m  sensible  how  ill  1 
deserve  this  partiality ;  yet,  Heaven  knows,  there  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croaker.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you 
little  hussy,  you.  With  those  endearing  ways  of  yours, 
on  my  conscience,  I  could  be  brought  to  forgive  any  thing, 
unless  it  were  a  very  great  offence  indeed. 

Olivia.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence  —  When  you 
know  my  guilt  —  Yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I  feel 
the  greatest  pain  in  the  confession. 

Croaker.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a  pain, 
you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble;  for  I  know  every 
syllable  of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 

Olivia.  Indeed !  then  I ’m  undone. 

Croaker.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match,  with 
out  letting  me  know  it,  did  you  ?  But  I ’m  not  worth 
being  consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there ’s  to  be  a  marriage 
in  my  own  family.  No,  I ’m  to  have  no  hand  in  the  di» 
posal  of  my  own  children.  No,  I ’m  nobody.  I ’m  to  be 
a  mere  article  of  family  lumber  ;  a  piece  of  cracked  china, 
to  be  stuck  up  in  a  corner. 


212 


TLI E  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Olivia .  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your  au 
thority  could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croaker.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more  ;  I ’m  as 
little  minded  as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter,  just  stuck  up 
with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth  till  there  comes  a  thaw  —  It  goes 
to  my  heart  to  vex  her.  [Aside, 

Olivia.  I  was*  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and  des¬ 
paired  of  pardon,  even  while  I  presumed  to  ask  it.  But 
your  severity  shall  never  abate  my  affection,  as  my  pun¬ 
ishment  is  but  justice. 

Croaker.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair,  neither, 
Livy.  We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Olivia.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir  ?  Can  1 
ever  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too  long  de¬ 
ceived  me. 

Croaker.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan’t  deceive  you  now, 
for  I  forgive  you  this  very  moment ;  I  forgive  you  all ! 
and  now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Olivia.  Oh  transport !  this  kindness  overpowers  me. 

Ch'oaker.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  chil¬ 
dren.  We  have  been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and  we 
can ’t  expect  boys  and  girls  to  be  old  before  their  time. 

Olivia.  What  generosity  !  But  can  you  forget  the 
many  falsehoods,  the  dissimulation - 

Croaker.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin  you  ; 
but  where ’s  the  girl  that  won’t  dissemble  for  a  husband  ? 
My  wife  and  I  had  never  been  married,  if  we  liad  not 
dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 

Olivia.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put  such 
generosity  to  a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the  partner  of 
my  offence  and  folly,  from  his  native  honor,  and  the  just 
sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I  can  answer  for  him  that- - 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


213 


Filter  Leontine 

Iseontine.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself 
(Kneeling.)  Thus,  sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude  for 
this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes,  sir,  this  even  exceeds 
all  your  former  tenderness :  I  now  can  boast  the  most  in¬ 
dulgent  of  fathers.  The  life  he  gave,  compared  to  this* 
was  but  a  trifling  blessing. 

Croaker.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with  that 
fine  tragedy  face,  and  flourishing  manner?  I  do  n’t  know 
what  we  have  to  do  with  your  gratitude  upon  this  occa 
sion. 

Leontine.  How,  sir !  is  it  possible  to  be  silent,  when 
so  much  obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse  me  the  pleasure  of 
being  grateful  ?  of  adding  my  thanks  to  my  Olivia’s  ?  of 
sharing  in  the  transports  that  you  have  thus  occasioned  ? 

Croaker.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough  without 
your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  do  n’t  know 
what ’s  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this  day ;  he  has  got 
into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner  all  this  morning ! 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in  the 
benefit,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  show  my  joy  ?  Is  the  being 
admitted  to  your  favor  so  slight  an  obligation  ?  Is  the 
happiness  of  marrying  Olivia  so  small  a  blessing  ? 

Croaker.  Marrying  Olivia !  marrying  Olivia  !  marry¬ 
ing  his  own  sister  I  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of  his  senses. 
His  own  sister! 

Ljeontine.  My  sister ! 

Olivia.  Sister !  how  have  I  been  mistaken !  [ Aside. 

Leontine.  Some  cursed  mistake  in  all  this  I  find. 

[Aszcfo 


214 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Croaker.  What  does  the  booby  mean  ?  or  has  h€ 
any  meaning  ?  Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead 
you  ? 

Leontine.  Mean,  sir?  —  why,  sir  —  only  when  my 
sister  is  to  be  married,  that  I  have  the  pleasure  of  marry¬ 
ing  her,  sir,  —  that  is,  of  giving  her  away,  sir, —  I  have 
made  a  point  of  it 

Croaker.  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Give  her  away.  You 
have  made  a  point  of  it  ?  Then  you  had  as  good  make  a 
point  of  first  giving  away  yourself,  as  I ’m  going  to  pre¬ 
pare  the  writings  between  you  and  Miss  Hichland  this 
very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is  here  about  nothing !  Why 
what  *s  the  matter  now  ?  I  thought  I  had  made  you  at 
least  as  happy  as  you  could  wish. 

Olivia.  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  very  happy. 

Croaker.  Do  you  foresee  any  thing,  child  ?  You  look 
as  if  you  did.  I  think  if  any  thing  was  to  be  foreseen,  1 
have  as  sharp  a  look-out  as  another ;  and  yet  I  foresee 
nothing.  \Exit. 

Leontine  and  Olivia . 

Olivia.  What  can  it  mean  ? 

Leontine.  He  knows  something,  and  yet,  for  my  life, 
I  can ’t  tell  what. 

Olivia.  It  can ’t  be  the  connection  between  us,  I ’m 
pretty  certain. 

Leontine.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I ’m  resolved 
to  put  it  out  of  fortune’s  power  to  repeat  our  mortification. 
I  ’ll  haste  and  prepare  for  our  journey  to  Scotland,  this 
very  evening.  My-  friend  Honeywood  has  promised  me 
his  advice  and  assistance.  I  ’ll  go  U  him  and  repose  oui 


the  good-natured  man 


215 


distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom  ;  and  I  know  so  muon  of 
his  honest  heart,  that  if  he  can ’t  relieve  our  uneasiness* 
he  will  ai  least  share  them.  \ Exeunt 


act  third. 

Scene  —  young  honeywood’s  house. 

Bailiffs  Honey  wood,  Follower. 

Bailiff.  Lookye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men  as 
you  in  my  time — no  disparagement  of  you  neither 
men  that  would  go  forty  guineas  on  a  game  of  cribbage. 
I  challenge  the  town  to  show  a  man  in  more  genteeler 
practice  than  myself. 

Honeywood.  Without  all  question,  Mr.  I  forget 
your  name,  sir  ? 

Bailiff.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never  knew  ? 
lie  !  he  !  he  ! 

Honeywood.  May  1  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  i 

Bailiff.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeywood.  Then,  pray  sir,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Bailiff.  That  I  did  n’t  promise  to  tell  you.— He  !  he 
he! —  A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among  us  that 
practise  the  law. 

Honeywood.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a 
secret,  perhaps  ? 

Bailiff.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I ’m 
ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If  you  can 


216 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


show  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus,  that  I  should 
prove  my  name  —  But,  come,  Timothy  Twitch  is  my 
name.  And,  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have  you  (o 
say  to  that  ? 

Honeywood.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.  Twitch, 
but  that  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  that ’s  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favors  are  more  easily  asked  than  grant* 
ed,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law.  I  have 
taken  an  oath  against  granting  favors.  Would  you  have 
me  perjure  myself? 

Honeywood.  But  my  request  will  come  recommended 
in  so  strong  a  manner,  as,  I  believe,  you  ’ll  have  no  scru¬ 
ple  (pulling  out  his  purse ).  The  thing  is  only  this :  I 
believe  I  shall  be  able  to  discharge  this  trifle  in  two  or 
three  days  at  farthest ;  but  as  I  would  not  have  the  affair 
known  for  the  world,  I  have  thoughts  of  keeping  you, 
and  your  good  friend  here,  about  me,  till  the  debt  is  dis¬ 
charged  ;  for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  that ’s  another  maxum,  and  altogether 
within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to  get 
any  thing  by  a  thing,  there ’s  no  reason  why  all  things 
should  not  be  done  in  civility. 

Honeywood.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr. 
Twitch ;  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one. 

[  Gives  him  money . 

Bailiff.  Oh  I  your  honor  ;  I  hope  your  honor  takes 
nothing  amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but  my  duty  in 
so  doing.  I ’m  sure  no  man  can  say  I  ever  give  a  gentle¬ 
man,  that  was  a  gentleman,  ill  usage.  If  I  saw  that  a 
gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  I  have  taken  money  not  to 
see  him  for  ten  weeks  together. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


*217 


Honeywood.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  sir,  it  *s  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to  see 
a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  do  n’t  know,  but  I 
think  J  have  a  tender  heart  myself.  If  all  that  I  have 
lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together,  it  would  make  a — but 
no  matter  for  that. 

Honeywood.  Do  n’t  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch.  The 
ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of  the  con¬ 
scious  happiness  of  having  acted  with  humanity  ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It ’s  better  than 
gold.  I  love  humanity.  People  may  say,  that  we  in  our 
way  have  no  humanity ;  but  I  ’ll  show  you  my  humanity 
this  moment.  There ’s  my  follower  here,  little  Flanigan, 
with  a  wife  and  four  children  —  a  guinea  or  two  would  be 
more  to  him,  than  twice  as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I 
can ’t  show  him  any  humanity  myself’  I  must  beg  leave 
you  ’ll  do  it  for  me. 

Honeywood.  I  assure  you,  Mir.  Twitch,  yours  is  a  most 
powerful  recommendation. 

[ Giving  money  to  the  follower 

Bailiff.  Sir,  you  Te  a  gentleman.  I  see  you  know 
what  to  do  with  your  money.  But,  to  business ;  we  are 
to  be  with  you  here  as  your  friends,  I  suppose.  But  set 
in  case  company  comes.  Little  Flanigan  here,  to  be  sure, 
ha3  a  good  face  —  a  very  good  face ;  but  then,  he  is  a 
little  seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law, — 
not  well  in  clothes.  Smoke  the  pocket-holes. 

Honeywood.  Will,  that  shall  be  remedied  without 
delay. 


IS» 


218 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


Writer  Servant. 

Servant.  Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeywood.  How  unlucky !  Detain  her  a  moment 
We  must  improve  my  good  friend  little  Mr.  Flanigan’s 
appearance  first.  Here,  let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit  of 
my  clothes  —  quick  —  the  brown  and  silver  —  Do  you 
hear  r 

Servant.  That  your  honor  gave  away  to  the  begging 
gentleman  that  makes  verses,  because  it  was  as  good  as  new. 

Honeywood.  The  white  and  gold  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honor,  I  made  bold  to  sell,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand  then  — 
the  blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr.  Flanigan  would  look 
best  in  blue.  [Exit  Flanigan. 

Bailiff.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look  well 
in  any  thing.  Ah,  if  your  honor  knew  that  bit  of  flesh 
as  well  as  I  do,  you ’d  be  perfectly  in  love  with  him. 
There’s  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four  counties  after  a 
shy-cock  than  he:  scents  like  a  hound  —  sticks  like  a 
weasel.  He  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  to  the  black 
Queen  of  Morocco,  when  I  took  him  to  follow  me.  ( Re¬ 
enter  Flanigan.)  Hell !  ecod,  I  thinks  he  looks  so  well, 
that  I  do  n’t  care  if  I  have  a  suit  from  the  same  place  foi 
myself. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coining.  Dear 
Mr.  Twitch,  I  D'g  you  ’ll  give  your  friend  directions  not 
to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I  know  you  will  say  nothing 
without  being  directed. 

Bailiff.  Never  you  fear  me;  I’ll  show  the  lady  1 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


21i) 


have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  another. 
One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  and  another  man  has 
another,  that ’s  all  the  difference  between  them. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Garnet. 

Mss  Richland.  You  ’ll  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this  visit 
But  you  know  I’m  yet  to  thank  you  for  choosing  my 
little  library. 

Honeywood.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary ;  as  it 
was  I  that  was  obliged  by  your  commands.  Chairs  here. 
Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and  Mr.  Flan¬ 
igan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit  without  ceremony. 

Miss  Richland.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men  be  ? 
I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must  be  so.  [Aside. 

Bailiff.  (After  a  pause.)  Pretty  weather ;  very 
pretty  weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Follower.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the  country. 

Honeywood.  You  officers  are  generally  favorites 
among  the  ladies.  My  friends,  madam,  have  been  upon 
very  disagreeable  duty,  I  assure  you.  The  fair  should, 
in  some  measure,  recompense  the  toils  of  the  brave. 

Miss  Richland.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every 
favor.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service,  I  pre¬ 
sume,  sir? 

Honeywood.  Why,  madam,  they  do  —occasionally 
serve  in  the  Fleet,  madam.  A  dangerous  service  I 

Miss  Richland.  I ’m  told  so.  And  I  own  it  lias  often 
surprised  me,  that  while  we  have  had  so  many  instances 
of  bravery  there,  we  have  had  so  few  of  wit  at  home  to 
praise  it. 

Honeywood.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have  no* 


220 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


written  as  our  sailors  have  fought ;  but  they  have  (lone 
all  they  could,  and  Hawke  or  Amherst  could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Richland.  I ’m  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a 
fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer. 

Honeywood.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against  dull 
writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  the  dullest  writei 
exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic  who  presumes  to  do 
spise  him. 

Follower.  Damn  the  French,  the  parle  vous,  and  all 
that  belongs  to  them ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sir ! 

Honeywood.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  honest  Mr.  Flanigan.  A 
true  English  officer,  madam ;  he  \s  not  contented  with 
beating  the  French,  but  he  will  scold  them  too. 

Miss  Richland.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does  not 
convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary. 
It  was  our  first  adopting  the  severity  of  French  taste, 
that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to  taste  us. 

Bailiff.  Taste  us !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  de¬ 
vour  us.  Give  Mounseers  but  a  taste,  and  I  ’ll  be  damn’d 
but  they  come  in  for  a  bellyfull. 

Miss  Richland.  Very  extraordinary  this  ! 

Follower.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the  bread 
rising  ?  the  parle  vous  that  devour  us.  What  makes  the 
mutton  fivepence  a  pound  ?  the  parle  vous  that  eat  it  up. 
What  makes  the  beer  threepence-halfpenny  a  pot  ? - 

Honeywood.  Ah  !  the  vulgar  rogues ;  all  will  be  out. 
( Aside. )  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my  word, 
and  quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a  parallel,  madam, 
between  the  mental  taste  and  that  of  our  senses.  We  are 
injured  as  much  by  the  French  severity  in  the  one,  as  by 
French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That ’s  their  meaning. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


221 


Miss  Richland.  Though  I  do  n’t  see  the  force  of  the 
parallel,  yet  I  ’ll  own,  that  we  should  sometimes  pardon 
books,  as  we  do  our  friends,  that  have  now  and  then  agree¬ 
able  absurdities  to  recommend  them. 

Bailiff.  That ’s  all  my  eye.  The  King  only  can  par¬ 
don,  as  the  law  says  :  for,  set  in  case - 

Honeywood.  I ’m  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir.  I  see  the 
whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our  pre¬ 
suming  to  pardon  any  work,  is  arrogating  a  power  that 
belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power  to  condemn,  what 
writer  can  be  free  ? 

Bailiff.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus  can 
set  him  free  at  any  time :  for,  set  in  case - 

Honeywood.  I ’m  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint.  If, 
madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so  careful  of 
a  gentleman’s  person,  sure  we  ought  to  be  equally  careful 
of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man ’s  nabb’d,  you 
know - 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever,  vou 
could  not  improve  the  last  observation.  For  my  own 
part,  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bailiff.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap - 

Honeywood.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave,  in  this  instance, 
to  be  positive.  For  where  is  the  necessity  of  censuring 
works  without  genius,  which  must  shortly  sink  of  them¬ 
selves  ?  what  is  it,  but  aiming  an  unnecessary  blow  against 
a  victim  already  under  the  hands  of  justice  ? 

Bailiff.  Justice!  Oh,  by  the  elevens!  if  you  talk 
about,  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there  :  for.  n  a  course 
of  law - 


222 


THE  QOOD-NATl  RED  MAN. 


Hone  (/wood.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what 
you ’d  be  at,  perfectly ;  and  I  believe  the  lady  must  be 
sensible  of  the  art  with  which  it  is  introduced.  I  suppose 
you  perceive  the  meaning,  madam,  of  his  course  of  law. 

Miss  Richland.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  perceive 
only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before  he  has  finish¬ 
ed,  and  the  other  before  ho  has  well  begun. 

Bailiff.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  will 
make  the  matter  out.  This  here  question  is  about  sever¬ 
ity,  and  justice,  and  pardon,  and  the  like  of  they.  Now, 
to  explain  the  thing - 

Honey  wood.  Oh  !  curse  your  explanations !  [Aside. 


Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to  speak 
with  you  upon  earnest  business. 

Honeywood.  That ’s  lucky.  ( Aside.)  Dear  madam, 
you  ’ll  excuse  me  and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a  few 
minutes.  There  are  books,  madam,  to  amuse  you.  Come, 
gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no  ceremony  with  such 
friends.  After  you,  sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I  must 
But  I  know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bailiff.  Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Follower.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and  be¬ 
hind.  [. Exeunt  Honeywood ,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Richland.  What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet  ? 

Garnet.  Mean,  madam !  why,  what  should  it  mean, 
but  what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see  ?  These  people 
he  calls  officers,  are  officers  sure  enough :  sheriff’s  offi 
cers — bailiffs,  madam. 

Miss  Richland.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though 


s 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


223 


his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I 
own  there  is  something  very  ridiculous  in  them,  and  a 
just  punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 

Garnet .  And  so  they  are  :  but  I  wonder,  madam,  that 
the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts  and  set 
him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this  time.  He  ought  at  least 
to  have  been  here  before  now.  But  lawyers  are  always 
more  ready  to  get  a  man  into  troubles  than  out  of  .hem. 

Enter  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  setting 
him  free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has  totally 
unhinged  my  schemes  to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  find,  that  among  a  number  of  worthless  friend¬ 
ships,  he  has  made  one  acquisition  of  real  value ;  for 
there  must  be  some  softer  passion  on  her  side,  that  prompts 
this  generosity.  Ha !  here  before  me  ?  I  ’ll  endeavor  to 
sound  her  affections.  Madam,  as  I  am  the  person  that 
have  had  some  demands  upon  the  gentleman  of  this  house, 
I  hope  you  ’ll  excuse  me,  if,  before  I  enlarged  him,  I  want¬ 
ed  to  see  yourself. 

Miss  Richland .  The  precaution  was  very  unnecessary, 
sir.  I  suppose  your  wants  were  only  such  as  my  agent 
had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  William.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also  willing 
you  should  be  fully  apprized  of  the  character  of  the  gen¬ 
tleman  you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Richland.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill 
grace  from  you.  To  censure  it,  after  what  you  have 
done,  would  look  like  malice ;  and  to  speak  favorably  of  a 
character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be  impeaching  your 


224 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


own.  And  sure,  his  tenderness,  his  humanity,  his  univer* 
sal  friendship,  may  atone  for  many  faults. 

Sir  William.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is  exert¬ 
ed  in  too  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless.  Our 
bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  disappears  when  diffused  too 
widely.  They  who  pretend  most  to  this  universal  benev¬ 
olence,  are  either  deceivers  or  dupes,  —  men  who  desire 
to  cover  their  private  ill-nature  by  a  pretended  regard  for 
all,  or  men  who,  reasoning  themselves  into  false  feelings, 
are  more  earnest  in  pursuit  of  splendid,  than  of  useful, 
virtues. 

Miss  Richland .  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one,  who 
has  probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others,  so  se¬ 
vere  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  William.  Whatever  I  have  gained  by  folly,  mad- 
am,  you  see  I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing  by  it. 

Miss  Richland.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unneces¬ 
sary  ;  I  always  suspect  those  services  which  are  denied 
where  they  are  wanted,  and  offered,  perhaps,  in  hopes  of 
a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions  have  been  given,  and  I 
insist  upon  their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  William.  Thou  amiable  woman !  I  can  no  longer 
contain  the  expressions  of  my  gratitude  —  my  pleasure. 
You  see  before  you  one  who  has  been  equally  careful  of 
his  interest ;  one  who  has  for  some  time  been  a  concealed 
spectator  of  his  follies,  and  only  punished  in  hopes  to  re¬ 
claim  them,  —  his  uncle  ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sir  William  Honeywood !  You  amaze 
me.  How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion?  I  fear,  sir, 
you  ’ll  think  I  have  been  too  forward  in  my  services.  I 
confess  I - 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


225 


Sir  William.  Do  n’t  make  any  apologies,  madam,  i 
only  find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obligation.  And 
yet,  I  have  been  trying  my  interest  of  late  to  serve  you. 
Having  learned,  madam,  that  you  had  some  demands 
upon  Government,  I  have,  though  unasked,  been  your 
solicitor  there. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir,  I’m  infinitely  obliged  to  yom 
uitentions.  But  my  guardian  has  employed  another  gen¬ 
tleman,  who  assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  William.  Who,  the  important  little  man  that 
visits  here  ?  Trust  me,  madam,  he  *b  quite  contemptible 
among  men  in  power,  and  utterly  unable  to  serve  you. 
Mr.  Lofty’s  promises  are  much  better  known  to  people 
of  fashion  than  his  person,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Richland.  How  have  we  been  deceived  !  As 
sure  as  can  be,  here  he  comes. 

Sir  William.  Does  he  ?  Remember  I ’m  to  continue 
unknown.  My  return  to  England  has  not  as  yet  been 
made  public.  With  what  impudence  he  enters  ! 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot  —  let  my  chariot  drive  off ;  I’ll 
visit  to  his  Grace’s  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland  here 
before  me !  Punctual,  as  usual,  to  the  calls  of  humanity. 
I ’m  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of  this  kind  should  hap¬ 
pen,  especially  to  a  man  I  have  shown  every  where,  and 
carried  amongst  us  as  a  particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Richland.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of  making 
he  misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lo  fty.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man  like 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


426 

roe  do  ?  One  man  can ’t  do  every  tiling ;  and  then,  I  d« 
so  much  in  this  way  every  day.  Let  me  see  —  some 
thing  considerable  might  be  done  for  him  by  subscription, 
it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried  the  list.  I  ’ll  undertake  tc 
set  down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two  dozen  lords,  and  half  the 
Lo  wer  House,  at  my  own  peril. 

Sir  William .  And.  after  all,  it ’s  more  than  probable 
sir,  he  might  reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful  patronage 

Lofty.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do  ?  You  know  ) 
never  make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or  twice  tried  to 
do  something  with  him  in  the  way  of  business ;  but  as  I 
often  told  his  uncle,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  the  man 
was  utterly  impracticable. 

Sir  William.  His  uncle  !  then  that  gentleman,  I  bup- 
po*e,  is  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning  me,  sir?  —  Yes,  madam,  as  I  often 
said.  My  dear  Sir  William,  you  are  sensible  I  would  do 
any  thing,  as  far  as  my  poor  interest  goes,  to  serve  your 
family:  but  what  can  be  done?  there ’s  no  procuring  first- 
rate  places  for  ninth  rate-abilities. 

Miss  Richland.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood  ;  he ’s  abroad  in  employment :  he  confided  m  your 
judgment,  I  suppose  ? 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  madam,  I  believe  Sir  William  had 
(Some  reason  to  confide  in  my  judgment  —  one  little  reason, 
perhaps. 

Miss  Richland.  Pray,  sir,  what  was  it  ? 

Lofty.  Why,  madam  —  but  let  it  go  no  farther  —  it 
eras  I  procured  him  his  place. 

Sir  William.  Did  you,  sir  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATE  RED  MAN. 


'2'! 


Lofty.  Either  you  or  I,  sir  ? 

Miss  Richland.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind  ir> 
deed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure  ;  he  had  some  amus* 
ing  qualities ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast-master  to  a 
club,  or  had  a  better  head. 

Miss  Richland.  A  better  head  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure  he  was  as  dull  as 
a  choice  spirit ;  but  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very  grate¬ 
ful  ;  and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

Sir  William.  He  might  have  reason,  perhaps.  His 
place  is  pretty  considerable,  I’m  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of  busi¬ 
ness.  I  he  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a  greater. 

Sir  William.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean,  sir? 
[ ’m  told  he ’s  much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ;  but 
then  he  wanted  a  something  —  a  consequence  of  form  — 
a  kind  of  a  —  I  believe  the  lady  perceives  my  meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Oh,  perfectly !  you  courtiers  can  do 
any  thing,  I  see. 

Lofly.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  ex¬ 
change;  we  do  greater  things  for  one  another  every  day. 
Vi  hy,  as  thus,  now  :  Let  me  suppose  you  the  First  Lord 
of  the  Treasury  ;  you  have  an  employment  in  you  that  I 
want  —  I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you  want ;  do  me  here, 
do  you  there :  interest  of  both  sides,  few  vords,  flat,  done 
and  done,  and  it ’s  over. 

Sir  William.  A  thought  strikes  me.  ( Aside.)  Now 
you  mention  Sir  William  Honeywood,  madam,  and  as  he 
«eems,  sii,  an  acquaintance  of  yours,  vou ’ll  be  glad  to 


228 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy :  I  had  it  from  a  friend  who 
knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and  you  may  depend 
on  my  information. 

■Lofty*  (-Aside.)  The  devil  he  is!  If  I  had  known 
that,  we  should  not  have  been  quite  so  well  acquainted. 

Sir  William.  He  is  certainly  returned ;  and  as  this 
gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal  service 
to  us,  by  introducing  me  to  him :  there  are  some  papers 
relative  to  your  affairs  that  require  despatch,  and  his  in¬ 
spection. 

Miss  Richland.  This  gentleman,  IVIr.  Lofty,  is  a  per¬ 
son  employed  in  my  affairs  —  I  know  you  ’ll  serve  us. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you.  Sir 
W  illiam  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think  proper  to 
command  it. 

Sir  William.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call  upon 
me  —  let  me  see  —  ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  William.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost  for 
ever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be ;  but 
damn  it,  that ’s  unfortunate :  My  Lord  Grig’s  cursed  Pen¬ 
sacola  business  comes  on  this  very  hour,  and  I ’m  engaged 
to  attend  —  another  time - 

Sir  William.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Lofty.  Y  ou  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a  letter 
is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work  ;  face  to  face,  that  *b 
my  way. 

>Str  William.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  well. 

Lofty.  Zounds !  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me ? 
direct  me  in  the  business  of  office  ?  Ho  you  know  me 
sir  ?  who  am  I  ? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


229 


Miss  Richland.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not  so 
much  his  as  mine ;  if  my  commands  —  but  you  despise 
my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  creature  !  —  your  commands  could 
even  control  a  debate  at  midnight :  to  a  power  so  consti¬ 
tutional,  I  am  all  obedience  and  tranquillity.  He  shall 
have  a  letter  :  where  is  my  secretary  ?  Dubardieu.  And 
yet,  I  protest,  I  do  n’t  like  this  way  of  doing  business.  I 
think  if  I  first  spoke  to  Sir  William  —  but  you  will  have 
ii  so.  [Exit  with  Miss  Richland. 

Sir  William.  ( Alone.)  Ha !  ha !  ha !  This  too  is 
one  of  my  nephew’s  hopeful  associates.  O  vanity !  thou 
constant  deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to  exalt  serve  but 
to  sink  us !  Thy  false  colorings,  like  those  employed  to 
heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that  bloom  which 
they  contribute  to  destroy.  I ’m  not  displeased  at  this  in¬ 
terview  ;  exposing  this  fellow’s  impudence  to  the  contempt 
it  deserves,  may  be  of  use  to  my  design ;  at  least,  if  he 
can  reflect,  it  will  be  of  use  to  himself. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

How  now,  Jarvis,  where ’s  your  master,  my  nephew  ? 

Jarvis.  At  his  wit’s  end,  I  believe  :  he ’s  scarce  gotten 
out  of  one  scrape,  but  he ’s  running  his  head  into  another. 

Sir  William.  How  so? 

Jarvis.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of  the  bail¬ 
iff's,  and  now  he’s  again  engaging,  tooth  and  nail,  in  assisting 
old  Croaker’s  son  to  patch  up  a  clandestine  match  with 
the  young  lady  that  passes  in  the  house  for  his  sister. 

Sir  William.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young  couple. 

20 


230 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland ;  and  he  sup 
plies  them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  William .  Money!  how  is  he  able  to  supply  otheis 
who  has  scarce  any  for  himself? 

Jarvis.  Why,  there  it  is :  he  has  no  money,  that’s  true 
but  then,  as  he  never  said  No  to  any  request  in  his  life, 
he  has  given  them  a  bill,  drawn  by  a  friend  of  his  upoa 
a  merchant  in  the  city,  which  I  am  to  get  changed ;  for 
you  must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them  to  Scotland 
myself. 

Sir  William .  How  ? 

Jarvis.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged  to 
take  a  different  road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is  to  call 
upon  an  uncle  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the  way,  in  order 
to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception  when  they  return ; 
so  they  have  borrowed  me  from  my  master,  as  the  prop- 
erest  person  to  attend  the  young  lady  down. 

Sir  William.  To  the  land  of  matrimony  !  A  pleasant 
journey,  Jarvis. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  but  I ’m  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues  on ’t. 

Sir  William.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less  fatigu 
ing,  than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of  the 
young  lady’s  family  and  connections,  whom  I  have  seen 
abroad.  I  have  also  discovered  that  Miss  Richland  is  nc  t 
indifferent  to  my  thoughtless  nephew  ;  and  will  endeavor 
though  I  fear  in  vain,  to  establish  that  connection.  Bui 
come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be  almost  finished  ;  I  ‘11 
^et  you  farther  into  my  intentions  in  the  next  room. 

[Exeurti 


THK,  GOOC-NATURED  MAN. 


231 


ACT  FOURTH. 

Scene — Croaker’s  House. 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil’s  in  me  of  late,  for  run* 
oing  my  head  into  such  defiles,  as  nothing  but  a  genius 
like  my  own  could  draw  me  from.  I  was  formerly  con¬ 
tented  to  husband  out  my  places  and  pensions  with  some 
degree  of  frugality ;  but  curse  it,  of  late  I  have  given 
away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  than  they 
could  print  the  title-page ;  yet,  hang  it,  why  scruple  a  lie 
or  two  to  come  at  a  fine  girl,  when  I  every  day  tell  a 
thousand  for  nothing?  Ha!  Honeywood  here  before 
me.  Could  Miss  Richland  have  set  him  at  liberty  ? 

Eater  Honeywood. 

Mr.  Honeywood,  I ’m  glad  to  see  you  abroad  again.  1 
find  my  concurrence  was  not  necessary  in  your  unfortu¬ 
nate  affairs.  I  had  put  things  in  a  train  to  do  your  busi¬ 
ness  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  I  intended  doing. 

Honeywood.  It  was  unfortunate,  indeed,  sir.  But 
*hat  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to  be 
acquainted  with  my  misfortune,  I  myself  continue  still  s 
M  ranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Lofty.  How  !  not  know  the  friend  that  served  yon  ? 

Honeywood.  Can ’t  guess  at  the  person. 

Lofy.  Inquire. 


232 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Honeywood.  I  have ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he 
chooses  to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inqui  ry  must  be 
fruitless. 

Lofty.  Must  be  fruitless  ? 

Honeywood.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Sure  of  that  ? 

Honeywood.  Very  sure. 

Lofty.  Then  I  ’ll  be  damn’d  if  you  shall  ever  know  it 
from  me. 

Honeywood.  How,  sir  ? 

Lofty .  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think  my 
rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast  sums  of 
money  to  throw  away ;  I  know  you  do.  The  world,  tc 
be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me. 

Honeywood.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no  stran¬ 
ger  to  your  generosity.  But  where  does  this  tend  ? 

Lofty.  To  nothing  —  nothing  in  the  world.  The  town, 
to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  me  the  subject 
of  conversation,  has  asserted,  that  I  never  yet  patronized 
a  man  of  merit. 

Honeywood.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary, 
even  from  yourself. 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeywood ;  and  there  are  instances  to 
the  contraiy,  that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Honeywood.  Ha  !  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you  but 
one  question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions ;  I  say,  sir,  ask  me  no 
questions ;  I  ’ll  be  damn’d  if  I  answer  them. 

Honeywood.  I  will  ask  no  farther.  My  friend !  my 
benefactor!  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  I  am  indebted  foi 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


233 


Freedom  —  for  honor.  Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men,  from 
the  beginning  I  suspected  it,  but  was  afraid  to  return 
thanks ;  which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem  reproaches. 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr.  Horn 
eywood :  you  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do  assure  you, 
sir  —  Blood,  sir,  can ’t  a  man  be  permitted  to  enjoy  tlifc 
luxury  of  his  own  feelings,  without  all  this  parade  ? 

Honeywood.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an  actior 
that  adds  to  your  honor.  Your  looks,  your  air,  your  man¬ 
ner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  sir !  torture  itself,  sir,  shall  never 
bring  me  to  confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  have  admitted 
you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Do  n’t  let  us  fall  out ; 
make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be  buried  in  oblivion.  You 
know  I  hate  ostentation  ;  you  'know  I  do.  Come,  come, 
Honeywood,  you  know  I  always  loved  to  be  a  friend,  and 
not  a  patron.  I  beg  this  may  make  no  kind  of  distance 
between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and  I  must  be  more  famil* 
iar  —  indeed  we  must. 

Honeywood.  Heavens !  Can  I  ever  repay  such  friend¬ 
ship  ?  Is  there  any  way  ?  Thou  best  of  men,  can  1 
ever  return  the  obligation  ? 

Lofty.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle!  But  I  see  your 
heart  is  laboring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be  grateful. 
It  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeywood.  How  ?  teach  me  the  manner.  Is  there 
any  way  ? 

Lofty.  From  this  moment  you’re  mine.  Yes,  ray 
v  friend,  vou  shall  know  it  —  I’m  in  love. 

Honeywood.  And  can  I  assist  you. 

Lofty .  Nobody  so  well. 

20* 


234 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Honeywood.  In  what  manner  ?  I  ’in  all  impatience. 

Lofty .  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeywood.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  yom 
favor? 

Lofty .  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  a  great  inter¬ 
est,  I  assure  you  —  Miss  Richland. 

Honeywood.  Miss  Richland! 

Lofty.  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck  the  blew 
up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter. 

Lloneywood.  Heavens  !  was  ever  any  thing  more  un¬ 
fortunate  ?  It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !  And  yet  I  can  endure 

it,  till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me.  Between 
ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me.  I ’m  not  apt  to  boast, 
but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeywood.  Indeed  !  But  do  you  know  the  persoD 
you  apply  to  ? 

Lofty.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine: 
that ’s  enough.  To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  success 
of  my  passion.  I  ’ll  say  no  more,  let  friendship  do  the 
rest.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if  at  any  time  my  little 
interest  can  be  of  service  —  but,  hang  it,  I’ll  make  nc 
promises :  you  know  my  interest  is  yours  at  any  time 
No  apologies,  my  friend,  I  ’ll  not  be  answered  ;  It  shall  be 
go.  [Exit. 

Honeywood.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man  !  He 
little  thinks  that  I  love  her  too  ;  and  with  such  an  ardent 
passion !  But  then  it  was  ever  but  a  vain  and  hopeless 
one  :  ray  torment,  my  persecution  !  What  shall  I  do 
Love,  friendship  ;  a  hopeless  passion,  a  deserving  friend! 
Love  that  has  been  my  tormentor  ;  a  friend  tha  t  has  per* 


THE  G00D-NATUIIE1)  MAN. 


233 


liaps  distressed  himself  to  serve  me.  It  shall  be  so.  Yes, 
[  will  discard  the  fondling  hope  from  my  bosom,  and  ex¬ 
ert  all  my  influence  in  his  favor.  And  yet  to  see  her  in 
the  possession  of  another! — Insupportable!  But  then 
to  betray  a  generous,  trusting  friend!  —  Worse,  worse ! 
Yes,  I ’m  resolved.  Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of 
their  happiness,  and  then  quit  a  country,  where  I  must 
for  ever  despair  of  finding  my  own.  [ Exit. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Garnet ,  who  carries  a  milliners  box. 

Olivia .  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over.  No 
news  of  Janus  yet  P  I  believe  the  old  peevish  creature 
delays  purely  to  vex  me. 

Garnet.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him  say, 
a  little  snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach  you  to  bear 
it  the  better  afterwards. 

Olivia.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had  only  to 
get  a  bill  changed  in  the  city  !  How  provoking ! 

Garnet.  I  ’ll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had  twice 
as  much  to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time  from  his  inn 
and  here  you  are  left  behind. 

Olivia.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming,  how¬ 
ever.  Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing,  Garnet  ? 

Garnet.  Not  a  stick,  madam ;  all ’s  here.  Yet  I  wish 
yen  could  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  married  in 
U ’s  the  worst  luck  in  the  world  in  any  thing  but  white. 

I  knew  one  Bett  Stubbs  of  our  town,  that  was  married  in 
red  ;  and  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs,  the  bridegroom  and  she 
had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Olivia.  No  matter,  I’m  all  impatience  till  we  are  out 
of  the  house. 


2M 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Garnet.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot  the 
wedding  ring  !  The  sweet  little  thing.  I  do  n’t  think  it 
would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what  if  I  put  in  a 
gentleman’s  night-cap,  in  case  of  necessity,  madam? — 
But  here  *s  Jarvis. 


Enter  Jarvis. 

Olivia .  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last!  We  have 
been  ready  this  half  hour.  Now  let ’s  be  going.  Let  ua 
fly! 

Jarvis.  Ay,  to  Jericho ;  for  we  shall  have  no  going  to 
Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Olivia .  How !  what ’s  the  matter  ? 

Jai'vis.  Money,  money  is  the  matter,  madam.  We 
have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send  me 
of  your  fool’s  errand  for  ?  My  master’s  bill  upon  the  city 
is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is  ;  Mrs.  Garnet  may  pin 
up  her  hair  with  it. 

Olivia .  Undone !  How  could  Honeywood  serve  ua 
so  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  Can ’t  we  go  without  it  ? 

Jarvis.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money !  To  Scot¬ 
land  without  money !  Lord !  how  some  people  under¬ 
stand  geography !  We  might  as  well  set  sail  for  Patago¬ 
nia  upon  a  cork-jacket. 

Olivia .  Such  a  disappointment !  What  a  base,  insim 
cere  man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  manner 
Is  this  his  good-nature  ? 

Jarvis.  Nay,  do  n’t  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam  ;  1 
won’t  bear  to  hear  any  body  talk  ill  of  him  but  myself 

Garnet.  Bless  us !  now  I  think  on ’t,  madam,  you 
need  not  be  under  any  uneasiness  :  I  saw  Mr.  Leontine 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  .MAN. 


237 


receive  forty  guineas  from  his  father  just  before  he  set 
out.  and  he  can  t  yet  have  left  the  inn.  A  short  letter 
will  reach  him  there. 

Olivia,  W' ell  remembered.  Garnet;  I’ll  write  imme 
diatelv.  How ’s  this  ?  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles  so 
I  can  t  write  a  word.  Ho  you  write,  Garnet  $  and,  upoi 
second  thought,  it  will  be  better  from  you. 

Garnet,  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but  poorly 
I  never  was  cute  at  my  learning.  But  I  ’ll  do  what  I  can 
to  please  you.  Let  me  see.  All  out  of  my  own  head,  1 
suppose  ? 

Oli  via,  Whatever  you  please. 

Garnet.  (Writing.)  ‘Muster  Croaker’  —  Twenty 
guineas,  madam  ? 

Olivia.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garnet.  4  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for.  — 
Expedition  —  Will  be  blown  up  —  All  of  a  flame— Quick 
despatch  —  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love.’  —  I  conclude  it, 
madam,  with  Cupid :  I  love  to  see  a  love  letter  end  like 
poetry. 

Olivia,  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  any  thing.  But 
how  shall  we  send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the  servants 
of  this  family. 

Garnet.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeyw'ood’s  butler  is  in 
the  next  room :  he’s  a  dear,  sweet  man  ;  he  ’ll  do  any 
thing  for  me. 

Jarvis.  He !  the  dog,  he  ’ll  certainly  commit  some 
blunder.  He’s  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a-day. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet :  any  body  we  can 
trust  will  do.  \_Exit  Garnet.~\  W ell,  Jarvis,  now  we  can 
nave  nothing  more  to  interrupt  us ;  you  may  take  up  the 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN, 


T38 


thing’s,  and  carry  them  on  to  the  inn.  Have  you  no 
hands,  Jarvis  ? 

Jarvis.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You  that  are 
;?oing  to  be  married  think  things  can  never  be  done  too 
Sist ;  but  we,  that  are  old,  and  know  what  we  are  about, 
smst  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Olivia.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be  done 
over  again - 

Jarvis.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times 
over - 

Olivia.  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?  If  you  knew  how  un¬ 
happy  they  make  me - 

Jarvis.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt:  I  was  once  just  as 
unhappy  when  I  was  going  to  be  married  myself.  I  ’ll 
tell  you  a  story  about  that - 

Olivia.  A  story!  when  I  am  all  impatience  to  be 
away.  Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature ! 

Jarvis.  W ell,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we  will 
march,  that ’s  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we  have  still  for 
got  one  thing  we  should  never  travel  without  —  a  case  of 
good  razors,  and  a  box  of  shaving  powder.  But  no  mat¬ 
ter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  pretty  well  shaved  by  the  way. 

[  Going. 

Enter  Garnet. 

Garnet.  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr.  Jarvis, 
you  said  right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr.  Honey- 
wood’s  rogue  of  a  drunken  butler  dropped  the  letter  be¬ 
fore  he  went  ten  yards  from  the  door.  There ’s  old 
Croaker  has  just  picked  it  up,  and  is  this  moment  reading 
it  to  himself  in  the  hall. 


/ 


Olivia.  Unfortunate !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garnet.  No,  madam  ;  do  n’t  be  uneasy,  lie  can  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure,  he  looks  as  if  he 
was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam,  about  it,  but  he  can ’t  find 
what  it  means  for  all  that.  O  lud,  he  is  coming  this  way 
all  in  the  horrors. 

Olivia.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant  for 
fear  he  should  ask  farther  questions.  In  the  mean  time, 
Garnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  just  such  another. 

\Exeunt. 

Enter  Croaker. 

I 

Croaker.  Death  and  destruction !  Are  all  the  horrors 
of  air,  fire,  and  water,  to  be  levelled  only  at  me  ?  Am  I 
only  to  be  singled  out  for  gunpowder  plots,  combustibles, 
and  conflagrations?  Here  it  is  —  An  incendiary  letter 
dropped  at  my  door.  i  To  Muster  Croaker,  these  with 
speed/  Ay,  ay,  plain  enough  the  direction :  all  in  the 
genuine  incendiary  spelling,  and  as  cramp  as  the  devil. 
*  With  speed/  Oh,  confound  your  speed !  But  let  me 
read  it  once  more.  ( Reads.)  ‘  Muster  Croaker,  as  sone 
as  yowe  see  this,  leve  twenty  gunnes  at  the  bar  of  the 
Talboot  tell  caled  for,  or  yowe  and  yower  experetion  will 
be  al  blown  up/  Ah,  but  too  plain  !  Blood  and  gun¬ 
powder  in  every  line  of  it.  Blown  up  !  murderous  dog ! 
All  blown  up !  Heavens !  what  have  I  and  my  poor 
family  done,  to  be  all  blown  up  ?  ( Reads.)  ‘  Our  pock 

ets  are  low,  and  money  we  mast  have/  Ay,  there ’s  the 
reason ;  they  ’ll  blow  us  up,  because  they  have  got  low 
pockets.  ( Reads.)  It  is  but  a  short  time  you  have  to 
consider;  for  if  this  fakes  wind,  the  house  will  quickly 


240 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


be  all  of  a  flame/  Inhuman  monsters  !  blow  us  up,  and 
then  burn  us  !  The  earthquake  at  Lisbon  was  but  a  bon¬ 
fire  to  it.  (Reads.)  i  Make  quick  despatch,  and  so  no 
tnoie  at  present.  But  may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love, 
go  with  you  wherever  you  go.’  The  little  god  of  love ! 
Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  me !  —  Go  you  to 
the  devil,  you  and  your  little  Cupid  together.  I ’m  so 
frightened,  I  scarce  know  whether  I  sit,  stand,  or  go. 
Perhaps  this  moment  I’m  treading  on  lighted  matches, 
blazing  brimstone,  and  barrels  of  gunpowder.  They  are 
preparing  to  blow  me  up  into  the  clouds.  Murder  1  We 
shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds ;  we  shall  be  all  burnt  in 
our  beds  I 

Enter  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Richland.  Lord,  sir,  what ’s  the  matter  ? 

Croaker .  Murder’s  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all  blown 
up  in  our  beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Richland.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croaker.  W  hat  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam,  when 
I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand  ?  Will  nothin® 
alaini  my  family?  Sleeping  and  eating  —  sleeping  and 
eating  is  the  only  work  from  morning  till  night  in  my 
house.  My  insensible  crew  could  sleep  though  rocked  by 
an  earthquake,  and  fry  beef-steaks  at  a  volcano. 

Mi ss  Richland.  Lut,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so 
cften  already ;  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes,  fam- 
mes>  plagues,  and  mad  dogs  from  year’s  end  to  year’s  end 
\  0u  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above  a  month  ago,  you 
assuied  us  of  a  conspiracy  among  the  bakers  to  poison  ua 
in  our  bread;  and  so  kept  the  whole  family  a  week  upon 
potatoes. 


the  good-natured  man.  241 


Croaker.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them.  But 
why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I  should  bi» 
facing  the  enemy  without!  Here,  John,  Nicodemus, 
seai  ck  the  house.  Book  into  the  cellars,  to  see  if  there 
be  any  combustibles  below ;  and  above,  in  the  apartments 
tliaf  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at  the  windows.  Let  all 
the  flies  be  put  out,  and  let  the  engine  be  drawn  out  in 
the  yard,  to  play  upon  the  house  in  case  of  necessity.  [ Exit 
Miss  Richland.  (Alone. )  What  can  he  mean  by  all 
this  ?  Yet  why  should  I  inquire,  when  he  alarms  us  in 
this  manner  almost  every  day.  But  Honeywood  has  de¬ 
sired  an  interview  with  me  in  private.  What  can  he 
mean?  or  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation  at  his  ap- 
proach  ?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  showed  anything  in 
his  conduct  that  seemed  particular.  Sure,  he  cannot 
mean  to  —  but  he ’s  here. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeywood.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview,  mad* 

am,  before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted - 

Miss  Richland.  Indeed  !  leaving  town,  sir  ? 
Honeywood.  Yes,  madam,  perhaps  the  kingdom.  I 
have  presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favor  of  this  interview 
in  order  to  disclose  something  which  our  friendship. 

prompts.  And  yet  my  fears - 

Miss  Richland.  His  fears !  what  are  his  fears  to  mine  h 
(Aside.)  We  have,  indeed,  been  long  acquainted,  sir ; 
very  long.  If  I  remember,  our  first  meeting  was  at  the 
French  ambassador’s.  Do  you  recollect  how  you  were 
pleased  to  rally  me  upon  my  complexion  there  ? 

Honeywood.  Perfectly,  madam ;  I  presumed  to  re- 

21 


242 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


prove  you  for  painting ;  but  your  warmer  blushes  soot 
convinced  the  company  that  the  coloring  was  all  from 
nature. 

Miss  Richland .  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in  your 
good-natured  way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment  to  my¬ 
self.  In  the  same  manner,  you  danced  that  night  with 
the  most  awkward  woman  in  company,  because  you  saw 
nobody  else  would  take  her  out. 

Honeywood .  Yes ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next  night 
by  dancing  with  the  finest  woman  in  company,  whom  ev 
erybody  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then,  ] 
fear  your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the  errors  of  a 
first  impression.  We  generally  show  to  most  advantage 
at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor  tradesmen,  that  put  all 
their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 

Honeywood.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  indeed 
decieve  me.  I  expected  to  find  a  woman  with  all  the 
faults  of  conscious,  flattered  beauty :  I  expected  to  find 
her  vain  and  insolent.  But  every  day  has  since  taught 
me,  that  it  is  possible  to  possess  sense  without  pride,  and 
beauty  without  affectation. 

Miss  Richland.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual  with 
Mr.  Honeywood  ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know  why  he 
thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity,  which  his  own  les¬ 
sons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Honeywood.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from  our 
long  friendship,  I  presumed  I  might  have  some  right  to 
offer,  without  offence,  what  you  may  refuse  without  of¬ 
fending. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir  !  I  beg  you ’d  reflect :  though  J 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


24# 

fear  f  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a  requast  of 
your*,  yet  you  may  be  precipitate:  consider,  sir. 

Honeywood.  I  own  my  rashness  ;  but  as  I  plead  the 
cause  of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves  —  don’t  be  alarmed, 
madam  —  who  loves  you  with  the  most  ardent  passion, 
whose  whole  happiness  is  placed  in  you - 

Miss  Richland.  1  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom 
you  mean,  by  this  description  of  him. 

Honey-wood .  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points  him 
out !  though  he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to  urge  his 
pretensions,  or  you  too  modest  to  understand  them. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  it  would  be  affectation  any  long¬ 
er  to  pretend  ignorance ;  and  I  will  own,  sir,  I  have  long 
been  prejudiced  in  his  favor.  It  was  but  natural  to  wish 
to  make  his  heart  mine,  as  he  seemed  himself  ignorant 
of  its  value. 

Honeywood.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  ( Aside )  I 
find,  madam,  you  ’re  already  sensible  of  his  worth,  his  pas¬ 
sion.  How  happy  is  my  friend  to  be  the  favorite  of  one 
with  such  sense  to  distinguish  merit,  and  such  beauty  to 
reward  it ! 

Miss  Richland.  Your  friend,  sir !  what  friend  ? 

Honey  wood.  My  best  friend  —  my  friend  Mr.  Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss  Richland.  He,  sir  ? 

Honey  wood.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what 
your  warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him ;  and  to  his 
other  qualities  he  adds  that  of  the  most  passionate  regard 
for  you. 

Miss  Richland.  Amazement!  —  Ao  more  of  this,  1 
beg  you,  sir. 


244  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

Honeywood.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and  kno\* 
how  to  interpret  it.  And,  since  I  so  plainly  read  the  lan 
guage  of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  by  friend  happy,  by 
communicating  your  sentiments  ? 

Miss  Richland.  By  no  means. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  I  must;  I  know  you  desire 
it. 

Miss  Richland.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you,  that 
you  wrong  my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When  I  first 
applied  to  your  friendship,  I  expected  advice  and  assist¬ 
ance  ;  but  now,  sir,  I  see  that  it  is  in  vain  to  expect  hap¬ 
piness  from  him  who  has  been  so  bad  an  economist  of  his 
own  ;  and  that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship  who  ceases 
to  be  a  friend  to  himself.  [Exit. 

Honeywood.  How  is  this  ?  she  has  confessed  she  lov¬ 
ed  him,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure.  Can 
1  have  done  anything  to  reproach  myself  with  ?  No  !  1 
believe  not:  yet,  after  all,  these  things  should  not  be  done 
by  a  third  person :  I  should  have  spared  her  confusion 
Mv  friendship  carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  Croaker ,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand , 
and  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  And  so,  my  dear,  it 's 
your  supreme  wish  that  I  should  be  quite  wretched  upon 
this  occasion  ?  Ha !  ha  ! 

Croaker.  ( Mimicking.)  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  And  so,  my 
dear,  it ’s  your  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better 
consolation  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Positively,  my  dear ;  what  is  this  in¬ 
cendiary  stuff  and  trumpery  to  me  ?  Our  house  may 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  245 

travel  through  the  air,  like  the  house  of  Loretto,  for  aught 
1  care,  If  I ’m  to  be  miserable  in  it. 

Croaker.  Would  to  heaven  it  were  converted  into  a 
house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have  we  not  ev¬ 
erything  to  alarm  us  ?  Perhaps  this  very  moment  the 
tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till 
the  rising  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the  money  they 
want,  and  have  done  with  them. 

Croaker.  Give  them  my  money !  —  and  pray,  what 
right  have  they  to  my  money  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  pray,  what  right,  then,  have  you 
to  my  good- humor  ? 

Croaker.  And  so  your  good-humor  advises  me  to  part 
with  my  money  ?  Why,  then,  to  tell  your  good-humor  a 
piece  of  my  mind,  I ’d  sooner  part  with  my  wife.  Here 
is  Mr.  Honeywood  ;  see  what  he  ’ll  say  to  it.  My  dear 
Iloneywood,  look  at  this  incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my 
door.  It  will  freeze  you  with  terror  ;  and  yet  lovey  can 
read  it  —  can  read  it,  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Croaker.  If  he  does,  I  ’ll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the  next 
minute  in  the  rogue’s  place,  that ’s  all. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood ;  is  there  any 
thing  more  foolish  than  my  husband’s  fright  upon  this  oc¬ 
casion  ? 

Hon, ey wood.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide,  mad¬ 
am  ;  but,  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors  now  will  but 
invite  them  to  renew  their  villany  another  time. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  told  you,  he’d  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croaker.  How,  sir !  Do  you  maintain  that  I  should 

21* 


246 


THE  GOOD-NATUliEB  MAN. 


lie  down  under  such  an  injury,  and  show,  neither  by  my 
fears  nor  complaints,  that  I  have  something  of  the  spirit 
of  a  man  in  me  ? 

Honeywood.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make  the 
loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The  surest 
way  to  have  redress  is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

Croaker.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  do  n’t  you  think  that  laughing  oil 
our  fears  is  the  best  way  ? 

Honeywood.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can  say ; 
but  I  ’ll  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croaker.  But  we  ’re  talking  of  the  best.  Surely  the 
best  way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  not  wait 
till  he  plunders  us  in  our  very  bed-chamber. 

Honeywood.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that  —  that  s  a 
very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  can  any  thing  be  more  absurd, 
than  to  double  our  distresses  by  our  apprehensions,  and 
put  it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fellow,  that  can  scrawl 
ten  words  of  wretched  spelling,  to  torment  us  ? 

Honeywood.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croaker.  How !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to  de» 
spise  the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Honeywood.  Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd. 

Croaker.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion. 

Honeywood.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  you  reject  mine? 

Honeywood.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No,  sure  no 
teasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  W  e  ought  cer¬ 
tainly  to  despise  malice,  if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and  not 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


247 


make  the  incendiary’s  pen  as  fatal  to  our  repose  as  the 
highwayman’s  pistol. 

Mrs.  Crociher.  Oh,  then  you  think  I ’m  quite  right? 

Honeywood.  Perfectly  right. 

Croaker.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can’t  be  both  right 
1  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad.  My  hat  must 
be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Certainly,  in  two  opposite  opinions,  if 
one  be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other  can ’t  be  perfectly 
right. 

Honeywood.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right,  madam  ? 
Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress,  and  you  in 
waiting  the  event  in  good-humor  ?  Pray,  let  me  see  the 
letter  again.  I  have  it.  This  letter  requires  twenty 
ouineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be 
indeed  an  incendiary  letter,  what  if  you  and  I,  sir,  go 
there ;  and  when  the  writer  comes  to  be  paid  his  expected 
booty,  seize  him  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  it’s  the  very  thing  —  the 
very  thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall  plant 
yourself  in  ambush  near  the  bar ;  burst  out  upon  the  mis¬ 
creant  like  a  masked  battery  ;  extort  a  confession  at  once, 
and  so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  but  I  would  not  choose  to  exercise 
toe  much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that  crimes  gen¬ 
erally  punish  themselves. 

Croaker.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little,  1 
suppose.  ( Ironically. ) 

Honeywood.  Ay,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  benevo 


teuce. 


248 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


fioneywood.  Well,  I  do  ;  but  remember  that  univer¬ 
sal  benevolence  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 

\_Exeunt  Honeywood  and  Mrs.  Croaker 
Croaker .  Yes;  and  my  universal  benevolence  will 

hang  the  dog,  if  lie  had  as  many  necks  as  a  hydra. 


ACT  FIFTH. 

Scene  —  an  inn. 

Enter  Olivia  arid  Jarvis. 

Olivia .  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  however 
Now,  if  the  post-chaise  were  ready - 

Jarvis.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats ;  and. 
as  they  are  not  going  to  be  married,  they  choose  to  take 
tiieir  own  time. 

Olivia .  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to  my 
impatience. 

Jarvis.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must 
take  their  own  time ;  besides,  you  do  n’t  consider  we  have 
got  no  answer  from  our  fellow-traveller  yet.  If  we  hear 
nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine,  we  have  only  one  way  left  us. 

Olivia.  What  way  ? 

Jarvis.  The  way  home  again. 

Olivia.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go,  and 
nothing  shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarvis.  Ay ;  resolutions  are  well  kept,  when  they 
jump  with  inclination.  However,  I  ’ll  go  hasten  things 
without.  And  I  ’ll  call,  too,  at  the  bar  tc>  see  if  any  thing 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


249 


should  be  left  for  us  there.  Don’t  be  in  such  a  plaguy 
hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster,  I  promise  you. 

[Exit  Jarvis. 

Enter  Landlady . 

Landlady.  What!  Solomon,  why  don’1  you  move 
Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there.  Will  nobody  an 
swer  ?  To  the  Dolphin ;  quick.  The  Angel  has  been 
outrageous  this  half  hour.  Did  your  ladyship  call,  mad¬ 
am  ? 

Olivia.  No,  madam. 

Landlady.  I  find  as  you  are  for  Scotland,  madam  — 
but  that ’s  no  business  of  mine  ;  married,  or  not  married, 

I  ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure,  we  had  a  sweet  little 
couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago  for  the  same  place. 
The  gentleman,  for  a  tailor,  was,  to  be  sure,  as  fine  a 
spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew  froth  from  a  full  pot.  And  the 
young  lady  so  bashful,  it  was  near  half  an  hour  before 
we  could  get  her  to  finish  a  pint  of  raspberry  between  us.  ■ 

Olivia.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to  be 
married,  I  assure  you. 

Landlady.  May  be  not.  That ’s  no  business  of  mine 
for  certain  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out  well.  There 
was,  of  my  own  knowledge,  Miss  Macf'ag,  that  married 
her  father’s  footman.  Alack-a-day,  she  and  her  husband 
soon  parted,  and  now  keep  separate  cellars  in  Hedge-lane. 

Olivia.  ( Aside.)  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what  lies 
before  me ! 


Enter  Leontine . 

/tontine.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you  wer' 


250 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


out  of  danger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I  could  not 
help  coming  to  see  you  set  out,  though  it  exposes  us  to  a 
discovery. 

Olivia.  May  everything  you  do  prove  as  fortunate. 
Indeed,  Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disappoint¬ 
ed.  Mr.  Honey  wood’s  bill  upon  the  city  has,  it  seems, 
been  protested,  and  we  have  been  utterly  at  a  loss  how 
to  proceed. 

Leontine.  How !  an  offer  of  his  own  too !  Sure  he 
could  not  mean  to  deceive  us  ? 

Olivia.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity ;  he  only  mistook 
the  desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let  us  think 
no  more  of  it.  I  believe  the  post-chaise  is  ready  by  this. 

Landlady.  Hot  quite  yet ;  and  begging  your  ladyship’s 
pardon,  I  do  n’t  think  your  ladyship  quite  ready  for  the 
post-chaise.  The  north  road  is  a  cold  place,  madam.  I 
have  a  drop  in  the  house  of  as  pretty  raspberry  as  ever 
was  tipt  over  tongue.  Just  a  thimblefull  to  keep  the 
•  wind  off  your  stomach.  To  be  sure,  the  last  couple  we 
had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect  nosegay.  Ecod,  I 
sent  them  both  away  as  good-natured  —  Up  went  the 
blinds,  round  went  the  wheels,  and  Drive  away,  post  boy ! 
was  the  word. 


Enter  Croaker . 

Croaker.  Well,  while  my  friend  Honeywood  is  upon 
the  post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my  business  to 
have  an  eye  about  me  here.  I  think  I  know  an  incendi- 
aiy's  look  ;  for  wherever  the  devil  makes  a  purchase,  he 
never  fails  to  set  his  mark.  Ha!  who.  have  we  here? 
My  son  and  daughter  !  What  can  they  be  doing  here? 


THF.  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


251 


Landlady .  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good ;  3 
think  I  know  by  this  time  wliat  *s  goot  for  the  north  road. 
It ’s  a  raw  night,  madam. - Sir  — 

Leontine.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should 
now  take  it  as  a  greater  favor,  if  you  hasten  the  horses, 
for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen  myself. 

Landlady.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon !  are 
you  all  dead  there  ?  Wha,  Solomon,  I  say ! 

[j Exit,  bawling. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun  in  fear, 
should  end  in  repentance.  Every  moment  we  stay  in¬ 
creases  our  danger,  and  adds  to  my  apprehensions. 

Leontine.  There’s  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear; 
there  can  be  none.  If  Honey  wood  has  acted  with  honor, 
and  kept  my  father,  as  he  promised,  in  employment  till 
we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can  interrupt  our  journey. 

Olivia.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honey  wood’s  sincer 
itv,  and  even  his  desire  to  serve  us.  My  fears  are  from 
your  father’s  suspicions.  A  mind  so  disposed  to  be  alarm¬ 
ed  without  a  cause,  will  be  but  too  ready  when  there ’s  a 
reason. 

Leontine .  Why,  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his  pow¬ 
er.  But  believe  me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great  reason  to 
dread  his  resentment.  His  repining  temper,  as  it  does  no 
manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so  will  it  never  do  harm  to 
others-  He  only  frets  to  keep  himself  employed,  and 
scolds  fur  his  private  amusement. 

Olivia.  I  do  n’t  know  that ;  but  I ’m  sure,  on  some 
occasions,  it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 


252 


TFIE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Croaker  discovering  himself. 

Croaleer.  How  does  he  look  now  ?  —  How  does  lie  look 
now  ? 

Olivia.  Ah ! 

Leontine .  Undone ! 

Croaker.  How  do  I  look  now  ?  Fir,  I  am  your  very 
humble  servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours !  What !  you  are 
going  off,  are  you  ?  Then,  first,  if  you  please,  take  a 
word  or  two  from  me  with  you  before  you  go.  Tell  mo 
first  where  you  are  going ;  and  when  you  have  told  me 
that,  perhaps  I  shall  know  as  little  as  I  did  before. 

Leontine.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  increase 
your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your  information. 

Croaker.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy  ; 
and  you  too,  good  madam,  what  answer  have  you  got  ? 
Eh!  (A  cry  without ,  Stop  him.)  I  think  I  heard  a 
noise.  My  friend  Iloneywood  without  —  has  he  seized 
the  incendiary  ?  Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear  no  more  on ’t. 

Leontine.  Honeywood  without !  Then,  sir,  it  was  Mr 
Iloneywood  that  directed  you  hither  ? 

Croaker.  No,  sir,  it  was  not  Mr.  Honeywood  conduct¬ 
ed  me  hither. 

Leontine .  Is  it  possible  ? 

Croaker.  Possible !  why  he ’s  in  the  house  now,  siz  j 
more  anxious  about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir 

Leontine.  Then,  sir,  he ’s  a  villain. 

Croaker.  How,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he  takes 
most  care  of  your  father  ?  I  ’ll  not  bear  it.  I  tell  you 
I’ll  not  bear  it.  Honeywood  is  a  friend  to  the  family, 
and  I  ’ll  have  him  treated  as  such. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


253 


Leontine.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it 
deserves. 

Croaker.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he 
entered  into  my  griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to  de¬ 
tect  them,  you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  (A  cry  without , 
Stop  him.)  Fire  and  fury !  they  have  seized  the  incen¬ 
diary  :  they  have  the  villain,  the  incendiary  in  view. 
Stop  him !  stop  an  incendiary !  a  murderer !  stop  him ! 

[Exit. 

Olivia.  Oh,  my  terrors !  What  can  this  tumult  mean  ? 

Leontine.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  Honey- 
wood’s  sincerity.  But  we  shall  have  satisfaction :  he  shall 
give  me  instant  satisfaction. 

Olivia.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value  my 
esteem  or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate,  let  us 
not  add  guilt  to  our  misfortunes  :  consider  that  our  inno¬ 
cence  will  shortly  be  all  that  we  have  left  us.  You  must 
forgive  him. 

Leontine .  Forgive  him !  Has  he  not  in  every  in¬ 
stance  betrayed  us  ?  Forced  me  to  borrow  money  from 
him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us ;  promised 
to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out  of  danger, 
Rnd  here  brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of  our  escape  ? 

Olivia.  Do  n’t  be  precipitate.  We  may  yet  be  mis¬ 
taken. 

Enter  Post-hoy ,  dragging  in  Jarvis  ;  Honcyicood,  entering 

soon  after. 

Posthoy.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough.  Here 
is  the  incendiary  dog.  I  *m  entitled  to  the  reward  ;  I  ’13 

22 


254 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the  money  at  the  bar* 
and  then  run  for  it. 

lloneywood.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see  him- 
Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes.  ( Discovering  his 
mistake.)  Death !  what ’s  here  ?  Jarvis,  Lecntine,  Olivia ! 
What  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Jarvis.  Why,  I  ’ll  tell  you  what  it  means  :  that  I  was 
an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master  —  that ’s  all. 

Honeywood.  Confusion ! 

Leontine.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word 
with  me.  After  such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you  can 
venture  to  see  the  man  you  have  injured ! 

Honeywood.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my  hon¬ 
or - - 

Leontine.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame ;  and  do  not  con¬ 
tinue  to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know  you, 
sir,  I  know  you. 

Honeywood.  Why,  won’t  you  hear  me  ?  By  all  that’s 
just,  I  knew  not  - - 

Leontine .  Hear  you,  sir !  to  what  purpose  ?  I  now 
see  through  all  your  low  arts ;  your  ever  complying  with 
every  opinion ;  your  never  refusing  any  request ;  your 
friendship ’s  as  common  as  a  prostitute’s  favors,  and  as 
fallacious ;  all  these,  sir,  have  long  been  contemptible  to 
the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Haneywood.  Ha!  contemptible  to  the  world!  that 
reaches  me.  [Aside- 

Leontine.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  profes¬ 
sions,  I  now  find  were  only  allurements  to  betray ;  and 
all  your  seeming  regret  for  their  consequences,  only  cal* 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


255 


eulated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  your  heart.  Draw 
villain ! 


Enter  Croaker ,  out  of  breath. 

Croaker.  Where  is  the  villain  ?  Where  is  the  incen 
diary  ?  ( Seizing  the  Postboy.)  Hold  him  fast,  the  dog 

he  has  the  gallows  in  his  face.  Come,  you  dog,  confess 
confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Postboy .  Zounds !  master,  what  do  you  throttle  me 
for? 

Croaker.  ( Beating  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist  ?  do  you 
resist  ? 

Postboy.  Zounds !  master,  I ’m  not  he ;  there ’s  the 
man  that  we  thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to  be 
one  of  the  company. 

Croaker.  How ! 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under  a 
strange  mistake  here ;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guilty ;  it 
was  all  an  error  —  entirely  an  error  of  our  own. 

Croaker.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you’re  in  error;  for 
there ’s  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned  jesuitcial, 
pestilential  plot,  and  I  must  have  proof  of  it. 

Honeywood.  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croaker.  What !  you  intend  to  bring  ’em  off,  I  sup¬ 
pose  ?  I  ’ll  hear  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  culm  encugfi 
to  hear  reason. 

Olivia.  Excuse  me. 

Honeywood.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  it  txi 
you. 


256 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Jarvis.  "What  signifies  explanations  when  the  thing  w 
done  ? 

Honcywood.  Will  nobody  hear  me  ?  Was  there  ever 
such  a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice  ?  ( To  the 
Postboy.)  My  good  friend,  I  believe  you  ’ll  be  surprised 
when  I  assure  you - 

Postboy.  Sure  me  nothing  —  I ’m  sure  of  nothing  but 
a  good  beating. 

Croaker.  Come  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope 
for  any  favor  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely  all  you 
know  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Unhappily,  sir,  I ’m  but  too  much  the  cause 
of  your  suspicions  :  You  see  before  you,  sir,  one  that,  with 
false  pretences,  has  stept  into  your  family  to  betray  it ; 
not  your  daughter - 

Croaker.  Not  my  daughter  ! 

Olivia.  Not  your  daughter  —  but  a  mean  deceiver  — 
who  —  support  me,  I  cannot  - - 

Honeywood.  Help,  she ’s  going  ;  give  her  air. 

Croaker.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the  air  *. 
I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose  ever  daughter 
she  may  be  —  not  so  bad  as  that  neither. 

\Excunt  all  but  Choaker. 
Yes,  yes,  all ’s  out ;  I  now  see  the  whole  affair :  my  son 
is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady,  whom  he 
imposed  upon  me  as  his  sister.  Ay,  certainly  so ;  and 
yet  I  don’t  find  it  afflicts  me  so  much  as  one  might  think. 
There ’s  the  advantage  of  fretting  away  our  misfortune.1! 
beforehand,  — >  we  never  feel  them  when  they  come. 


THE  GOOD-NATUEEI)  MAN. 


257 


j Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that  my 
nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this  place  ? 

Miss  Richland.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come  to 
this  inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to  leave 
the  kingdom,  suggested  the  rest.  But  what  do  I  see 5 
my  guardian  here  before  us !  Who,  my  dear  sir,  could 
have  expected  meeting  you  here  ?  To  what  accident  do 
we  owe  this  pleasure  ? 

Croaker.  To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

Miss  Richland.  But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come? 

Croaker.  To  play  the  fool. 

Miss  Richland.  But  with  whom  ? 

Croaker.  With  greater  fools  than  myself. 

Miss  Richland.  Explain. 

Croaker.  Why,  Mr.  Honeywood  brought  me  here,  to 
do  nothing  now  I  am  here  ;  and  my  son  is  going  to  be 
married  to  I  do  n’t  know  who,  that  is  here :  so  now  you 
are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Richland.  Married !  to  whom,  sir  ? 

Croaker.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her  to  be  ; 
but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she  is,  1  know 
no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  William.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you ;  and,  though 
a  stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to  your  family 
ft  will  be  enough,  at  present,  to  assure  you,  that  both  in 
point  of  birth  and  fortune,  the  young  lady  is  at  least  your 
son’s  equal.  Being  left  by  her  father,  Sir  James  Wood- 
ville - 

Croaker.  Sir  James  Woodville !  What !  of  the  West  ? 


258 


.iiiE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN 


Sir  William.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care  of 
a  mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure  hei 
fortune  to  himself,  she  was  sent  to  France,  under  pre 
tence  of  education ;  and  there  every  art  was  tried  to  fix 
her  for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  inclinations.  Of 
this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at  Paris ;  and,  as  I 
had  been  once  her  father’s  friend,  I  did  all  in  my  power 
to  frustrate  her  guardian’s  base  intentions.  I  had  even 
meditated  to  rescue  her  from  his  authority,  when  your 
son  stept  in  with  more  pleasing  violence,  gave  her  liberty, 
and  you  a  daughter. 

Croaker.  Byt  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my 
own  choosing,  sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  fortune,  by 
my  interest  with  those  that  have  interest,  will  be  double 
what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect.  Do  you  know  Mr. 
Lofty,  sir? 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir:  and  know  that  you  are  de¬ 
ceived  in  him.  But  step  this  way,  and  I  ’ll  convince  you. 

[  Croaker  and  Sir  William  seem  to  confer. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honcyicood.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his  out¬ 
rage  !  Insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I  now  begin  to 
grow  contemptible  even  to  myself.  How  have  I  sunk 
by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please  !  How  have  I  over¬ 
taxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation  of  a  single 
fool  should  escape  me!  But  all  is  now  over:  I  have 
survived  ray  reputation,  my  fortune,  my  friendships,  and 
nothing  remains  henceforward  for  me  but  solitude  and  re¬ 
pentance. 

Miss  Richland.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that  you 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


25? 


are  setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your  friends  ?  The 
report  is,  that  you  are  quitting  England :  Can  it  be  ? 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam ;  and  though  I  am  so  ui> 
happy  as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure,  yet,  thank 
Heaven !  I  leave  you  to  happiness  —  to  one  who  loves 
you,  and  deserves  your  love  —  to  one  who  has  power  to 
procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to  improve  youi 
enjoyment  of  it. 

Miss  Richland .  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the  gen¬ 
tleman  you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeywood.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it  —  his 
serving  me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  highest  happi¬ 
ness,  and  that  is  in  your  power  to  confer.  As  for  me, 
weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been,  obliged  by  all,  and 
incapable  of  serving  any,  what  happiness  can  I  find  but 
in  solitude  ?  what  hope,  but  in  being  forgotten  ? 

Miss  Richland.  A  thousand :  to  live  among  friends 
that  esteem  you,  whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be  permit¬ 
ted  to  oblige  you. 

Honeywood.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed.  In¬ 
feriority  among  strangers  is  easy ;  but  among  those  that 
once  were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay,  to  show  you  Low 
far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can  now  speak  with  calmness 
of  my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my  dissipation,  my  weak¬ 
ness.  I  will  even  confess,  that,  among  the  number  of  my 
other  presumptions,  I  had  the  insolence  to  think  of  loving 
you.  Yres,  madam,  while  I  was  pleading  the  passion  of 
another,  my  heart  was  tortured  with  its  own.  But  it  is 
over;  it  was  unworthy  our  friendship,  and  let  it  he  f >r 
gotten. 

Miss  Richland.  You  amaze  me  ! 


260 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Honeywood.  But  you  ’ll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will 
since  the  confession  should  not  have  come  from  me  even 
now,  but  to  convince  you  of  the  sincerity  of  my  intention 
of —  never  mentioning  it  more.  [  Going . 

Miss  Richland.  Stay,  sir,  one  moment  —  Ha !  he 
here - — 


Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty .  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends  ?  I  have 
followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intelligence ; 
but  it  goes  no  farther;  things  are  not  yet  ripe  for  a  dis¬ 
covery.  I  have  spirits  working  at  a  certain  board ;  your 
aflair  at  the  Treasury  will  be  done  in  less  than  —  a  thou¬ 
sand  years.  Mum ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into  prop¬ 
er  hands,  that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to  parry ; 
that  know  how  the  land  lies  —  eh,  Honeywood  ? 

Miss  Richland.  It  has  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense,  your 
thing  is  done.  It  is  done,  I  say  —  that ’s  all.  I  have 
just  had  assurances  from  Lord  Neverout,  that  the  claim 
has  been  examined,  and  found  admissible.  Quietus  is  the 
word,  madam. 

Honeywood.  But  how  ?  his  lordship  has  been  at  New¬ 
market  these  ten  days. 

Lofty.  Indeed !  then  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must  have 
been  most  damnably  mistaken.  I  had  it  of  him. 

Miss  Richland.  He  !  why,  Sir  Gilbert  and  his  family 
have  been  in  the  country  t his  month. 

This  month !  it  must  certainly  be  so  —  Sn 


Lfiy. 


\ 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN.  261 

Gilbert’s  letter  did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  eo  that 
he  must  have  met  his  lordship  there  ;  and  so  it  came 
about.  I  have  his  letter  about  me  ;  I  ’ll  read  it  to  you. 
(  Talcing  out  a,  large  bundle.)  That ’s  from  Paoli  of  Cor¬ 
sica,  that  from  the  Marquis  of  Squilachi.  Have  you  a 
mind  to  see  a  letter  from  Count  Poniatowski,  now  King 
of  Poland  ?  Honest  Pon  —  ( Searching.)  Oh,  sir,  what, 
are  you  here  too  ?  I  ’ll  tell  you  what,  honest  friend,  if 
you  have  not  absolutely  delivered  my  letter  to  Sir  Wil¬ 
liam  Honeywood,  you  may  return  it.  The  thing  will  do 
without  him. 

Sir  William.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it;  and  must  in¬ 
form  you,  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortifying  con¬ 
tempt. 

Croaker.  Contempt !  Mr.  Lofty,  viiat  can  that  mean  ? 

Lofty.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say.  You  ’ll 
find  it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir ;  I  believe  you  il  be  amazed, 
if,  after  waiting  some  time  in  the  antechamber  —  after 
being  surveyed  with  insolent  curiosity  by  the  passing  ser¬ 
vants,  I  wras  at  last  assured,  that  Sir  William  Honeywood 
knew  no  such  person,  and  I  must  certainly  have  been  im¬ 
posed  upon. 

Lofty.  Good!  let  me  die  ;  very  good.  I  la!  ha!  ha! 

Croaker.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can ’t  find  out  half  the 
goodness  of  it. 

Lofty.  You  can ’t  ?  Ha !  ha  ! 

Croaker.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me :  I  think  it  was  as 
confounded  a  bad  answer  as  ever  wTas  sent  from  one  pri¬ 
vate  gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can ’t  find  out  the  force  of  the 


262  THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 

message  ?  Why,  I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very  time 
Ha !  ha  !  it  was  I  that  sent  that  very  answer  to  my  own 
letter.  Ila !  ha ! 

Croaker.  Indeed !  How  ?  why  ? 

Lofty.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William  and 
me  must  be  behind  the  curtain.  A  party  has  many  eyes 
He  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side  with  Sir  Gilbert 
Goose.  So  that  unriddles  the  mystery. 

Croaker.  And  so  it  does,  indeed ;  and  all  my  suspi¬ 
cions  are  over. 

Lofty.  Your  suspicions !  what,  then,  you  have  been 
suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have  you !  Mr. 
Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends  —  we  are  friends  no  long¬ 
er.  Never  talk  to  me.  It ’s  over ;  I  say,  it  ’s  over. 

Croaker.  As  I  hope  for  your  favor,  I  did  not  mean  to 
offend.  It  escaped  me.  Do  n’t  be  discomposed. 

Lofty.  Zounds!  sir,  but  I  am  discomposed,  and  will 
be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus  !  Who  am  I  ?  Was 
it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both  by  ins  and  outs  ? 
Have  I  been  libelled  in  the  Gazetteer,  and  praised  in  the 
St  James’s;  have  I  been  chaired  at  Wildman’s,  and  a 
speaker  at  Merchant  Tailors’  Hall ;  have  I  had  my  hand 
to  addresses,  and  my  head  in  the  print-shops, —  and  talk 
to  me  of  suspects  ? 

Croaker.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can  you 
tiave  but  asking  pardon  ? 

Lofty.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified  —  Suspects  !  Who 
am  I  ?  To  be  used  thus  !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men  in 
favor  to  serve  my  friends,  the  lords  of  the  Treasury,  Sir 
William  Honey  wood,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang,  and  talk 
to  me  of  suspects !  Who  am  I,  I  say,  who  am  I  ? 


s 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


263 


Sir  William.  Since  you  are  so  pressing  for  an  answer, 
I’ll  tell  you  who  you  are:  —  A  gentleman  as  well  a c- 
qmiinted  with  politics  as  with  men  in  power ;  as  well 
acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion  as  with  modesty  ;  with 
lords  of  the  Treasury  as  with  truth  ;  and,  with  all,  as  you 
are  with  Sir  William  Honeywood.  I  am  Sir  William 
Honey  wood.  ( Discovering  his  ensigns  of  the  Bath.) 

Croaker.  Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 

Honeywood.  Astonishment!  my  uncle !  (Astde.) 

Lofty.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been  all 
this  time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in  order  to 
fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croaker.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these  your 
works  ?  Suspect  you !  You,  who  have  been  dreaded 
by  the  ins  and  outs ;  you,  who  have  had  your  hand  to 
addresses,  and  your  head  stuck  up  in  print-shops  ?  It  you 
were  served  right,  you  should  have  your  head  stuck  up 
in  the  pillory. 

Lofty.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will ;  for  by  the  Lord, 
it  cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  at  present. 

Sir  William.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now  see 
how  incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you,  and  how 
little  Miss  Ilichland  has  to  expect  from  his  influence. 

Croaker.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it ;  and  I  can ’t  but  say 
I  have  had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten  days.  So  I ’m 
resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed  his  affections  on  a  lady 
of  moderate  fortune,  to  be  satisfied  with  his  choice,  and 
uot  run  the  hazard  of  another  Mr.  Lofty  in  helping  him 
to  a  better. 

Sir  William.  I  approve  your  resolution;  and  her« 


264 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


\mu 


they  come,  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  your  pardon  and 
consent. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker ,  Jarvis ,  Leontine ,  and  Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Where ’s  my  husband  ?  Come,  come, 
lovey,  you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been  to 
tell  me  the  whole  affair ;  and  I  say,  you  must  forgive  them. 
Our  own  was  a  stolen  match,  you  know,  my  dear ;  and 
we  never  had  any  reason  to  repent  of  it. 

Croaker.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However,  this 
gentleman,  Sir  William  Honeywood,  has  been  beforehand 
with  you  in  obtaining  their  pardon.  So,  if  the  two  poor 
fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I  think  we  can  tack  them  to¬ 
gether  without  crossing  the  Tweed  for  it. 

[  Joining  their  hands. 

Leontine.  How  blest  and  unexpected  !  What,  what 
can  we  say  to  such  goodness  ?  But  our  future  obedience 
shall  be  the  best  reply.  And  as  for  this  gentleman,  to 
whom  we  owe - 

Sir  William.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your 
thanks,  as  I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me.  (  Turn¬ 
ing  to  Honeywood.)  Yes,  sir,  you  are  surprised  to  see 
me ;  and  I  own  that  a  desire  of  correcting  your  follies  led 
me  hither.  I  saw  with  indignation  the  errors  of  a  mind 
that  only  sought  applause  from  others ;  that  easiness  of 
disposition  which,  though  inclined  to  the  right,  had  not 
courage  to  condemn  the  wrong.  I  saw  with  regret  those 
splendid  errors,  that  still  took  name  from  some  neighbor¬ 
ing  duty  ;  your  charity,  that  was  but  injustice  ;  your  be¬ 
nevolence,  that  was  but  weakness ;  and  your  friendship 
but  credulity.  I  saw  with  regret,  great  talents  and  exte.n 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


265 


sive  learning  only  employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  eiror 
and  increase  your  perplexities.  I  saw  your  mind  with  a 
thousand  natural  charms ;  but  the  greatness  of  its  beauty 
served  only  to  heighten  my  pity  for  its  prostitution. 

Honeywood.  Cease  to  upbraid  me.  sir :  I  have  for 
some  time  but  to  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your  re¬ 
proaches.  But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me.  Yes,  sir, 
I  have  determined  this  very  hour  to  quit  for  ever  a  place 
where  1  have  made  myself  the  voluntary  slave  of  all, 
and  to  seek  among  strangers  that  fortitude  which  may 
give  strength  to  the  mind,  and  marshal  all  its  dissipated 
virtues.  Yet,  ere  I  depart,  permit  me  to  solicit  favor  for 
this  gentleman,  who,  notwithstanding  what  has  happened, 
has  laid  me  under  the  most  signal  obligations.  Mr.  Lof¬ 
ty - ' 

Lofty.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I ’m  resolved  upon  a  reforma¬ 
tion  as  well  as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find  that  the  man 
who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking  truth  was  a  much 
cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought  him.  And  to  prove  that 
I  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future,  I  must  now  assure 
you,  that  you  owe  your  late  enlargement  to  another ;  as, 
upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.  So  now,  it 
any  of  the  company  has  a  mind  for  preferment,  he  may 
take  my  place ;  I ’m  determined  to  resign.  [ Exit , 

Honeywood.  How  have  I  been  deceived ! 

Sir  William.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a  kind* 
er,  fairer  friend,  for  that  favor,  —  to  Miss  Richland.  Would 
she  complete  our  joy,  and  make  the  man  she  has  honored 
by  her  friendship  happy  in  her  love,  I  should  then  forget 
all,  and  be  as  blest  as  the  welfare  of  my  dearest  kinsman 
can  make  me. 


266 


THE  GOOD-NATT  RED  MAN. 


Miss  Richland.  After  wliat  is  past,  it  would  be  but 
affectation  to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will  own  an 
attachment,  which  I  find  was  more  than  friendship.  And 
if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his  resolution  to  quit  the 
country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not  power  to  de¬ 
tain  him.  £  Giving  her  hand. 

Honeywood.  Heavens !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all 
this  ?  How  express  my  happiness  —  my  gratitude  ?  A 
moment  like  this  overpays  an  age  of  apprehension. 

Croaker.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face;  but 
Heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months ! 

Sir  William.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect 
yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause  from  without, 
has  all  his  happiness  in  another’s  keeping. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive  my 
errors :  my  vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all  by  fearing 
to  offend  any ;  my  meanness,  in  approving  folly  lest  fools 
should  disapprove.  Henceforth,  therefore,  it  shall  be  my 
study  to  reserve  my  pity  for  real  distress ;  my  friendship 
for  real  merit ;  and  my  love  for  her  who  first  taught  me 
wlmt  it  is  to  be  happy.  [Exeunt  omnes 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


26? 


EPILO  GUE.* 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BERKLEY. 

As  pufling  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  sweai  the  pill  or  drop  has  wrought  a  cure  ; 

Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  play-wrights  still  depend 
For  epilogues  and  prologues  on  some  friend, 

Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 

And  makes  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 

Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about. 

And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out*. 

An  epilogue  !  things  can ’t  go  on  without  it ! 

It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it : 

‘Young  man/  cries  one  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover)? 

4  Alas  !  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over  ! 

Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I ; 

Your  brother-doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try.’ 

4  What  I,  dear  sir  ?  ’  the  Doctor  interposes, 

4  What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses  1 
No,  no,  I ’ve  other  contests  to  maintain  ; 

To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick-Lane. 

Go,  ask  your  manager/ — 4  Who,  me  ?  Your  pardon  ; 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden/ 

*  The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  ai 
Oxford,  deferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last  hour.  What 
is  here  offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the  graceful  manner  of  the 
actress  who  spoke  it. 


268 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


Our  author’s  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 

As  some  unhappy  wight,  at  some  new  play, 

At  the  pit-door  stands  elbowing  a  way, 

While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug, 
He  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug ; 

His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sinks  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 

He  nods,  they  nod ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace ; 

But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 

Since,  then,  unhelp’d,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
*  To  ’bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm,’ 

Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can. 
And  be  each  critic  the  Good-Natured  Mwn, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER; 


OR, 


THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT. 

A  COMEDY. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer  was  represented  for  the  first  time,  March  lfi 
1773.  It  was  very  successful,  and  became  a  stock  play.  Gold 
emith  originally  entitled  it,  The  Old  House  a  New  Inn. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.  D. 

Dear  Sir  — By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you, 
I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It  may 
do  me  some  honor  to  inform  the  public,  that  I  have  lived 
many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It  may  serve  the  interests 
of  mankind  also  to  inform  them  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be 
found  in  a  character,  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected 
piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your  partiality 
to  this  performance.  The  undertaking  a  comedy,  not  mere¬ 
ly  sentimental,  was  very  dangerous ;  and  Mr.  Colman,  who 
saw  this  piece  in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it  so.  How¬ 
ever,  I  ventured  to  trust  it  to  the  public ;  and,  though  it  was 
necessarily  delayed  till  late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  reason 
to  be  grateful. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  most  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

23* 


DRAMATIS  PERSONA 

MEN, 

Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Young  Marlow  (his  son.) 
Hardcastle . 

Hastings. 

Tony  Lumpkin. 

Diggory. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle . 

Miss  Hardcastle 
Miss  Neville. 

Maid. 

Landlord,  Servants,  etc „ 


V 


SHE  SI  OOPS  TO  CONQUER  ; 

OB, 

THE  MI  STAINES  OE  A  NIGHT. 


PKOLOGUE. 

BY  DAVID  GARRICK,  ESQ. 

Enter  Mr .  Woodward ,  dressed  in  black ,  and  holding  $ 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes. 

Excuse  me,  sirs,  I  pray  —  I  can  *t  yet  speak  — 

I ’m  crying  now  —  and  have  been  all  the  week. 

’Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,’  good  masters : 

I  Ve  that  within,*  for  which  there  are  no  plasters ! 

Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I  *m  crying  ? 

The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying ! 

And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop ; 

For,  as  a  player,  I  can ’t  squeeze  out  one  drop  ; 

[  am  undone,  that ’s  all  —  shall  lose  my  bread  — 

I ’d  rather  —  but  that  *s  nothing  —  lose  my  head. 

When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 

Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 

To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 

Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed. 

Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents  ; 

We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments : 

Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 


272 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 

What  shall  we  do  ?  If  Comedy  forsake  us, 

They  ’ll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us. 
But  why  can ’t  I  be  moral  ?  Let  me  try : 

My  heart  thus  pressing  —  fix’d  my  face  and  eye-'” 
With  a  sententious  look  that  nothing  means 
(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes), 

Tims  I  begin, 4  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 
Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ign’rance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand : 

Learning  is  better  far  than  house  or  land. 

Let  not  your  virtue  trip :  who  trips  may  stumble, 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble.’ 

I  give  it  up  —  morals  won’t  do  for  me  ; 

To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 

One  hope  remains, — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 

A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill ; 

To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion, 
He,  in  Five  Draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potion, 
A  kind  of  magic  charm  ;  for,  be  assured, 

If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured : 

But  desperate  the  Doctor’s  and  her  case  is, 

If  you  reject  the  dose  and  make  wry  faces. 

This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  pois’nous  drugs  are  mixed  in  what  he  gives. 
Should  he  succeed,  you  ’ll  give  him  his  degree  j 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee. 

The  college,  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 
Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Quack. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


27o 


ACT  FIRST. 

i 

Scene  1  —  k  chamber  in  an  old-fashioned  house. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Mr.  Hardcastle, 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  ’re  very 
particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the  whole  country  but 
ourselves,  that  does  not  take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then, 
to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ?  There ’s  the  two  Miss  Hoggs, 
and  our  neighbor  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go  to  take  a  month’s  pol¬ 
ishing  every  winter. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affectation 
to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  London  can¬ 
not  keep  its  own  fools  at  home.  In  my  time,  the  follies 
of  the  town  crept  slowly  among  us,  but  now  they  travel 
faster  than  a  stage  coach.  Its  fopperies  come  down  not 
only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the  very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Aye,  your  times  were  fine  times  in¬ 
deed  :  you  have  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a  long 
year.  Here  we  live  in  an  old  rumbling  mansion,  that 
looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn,  but  that  we  never  see 
company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs.  Oddfish,  the 
curate’s  wife,  and  little  Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing- 
master  ;  and  all  our  entertainment  your  old  stories  of 
Prince  Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I  hate 
such  old-fashioned  trumpery. 

Hardcastle.  And  I  love  it,  I  love  every  thing  that ’s 
old :  old  friends,  old  timQs,  old  manners,  old  books,  old 
wine ;  and,  I  believe,  Dorothy,  ( taking  her  hand,)  you  ’ll 
own,  1  ’ve  been  pretty  fond  of  an  old  wife. 


274 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  re  lbs 
ever  at  your  Dorothys,  and  your  old  wives.  You  may  be 
a  Darby,  but  I  ’ll  be  no  Joan,  I  promise  you.  I ’m  not  so 
old  as  you ’d  make  me,  by  more  than  one  good  year. 
&dd  twenty  to  twenty  and  make  money  of  that. 

Hardcastle.  Let  me  see;  twenty  added  to  twenty 
makes  just  fifty  and  seven. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  It ’s  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle ;  I  was 
but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to-bed  of  Tony,  that  I 
had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband ;  and  he ’s  not 
come  to  years  of  discretion  yet 

Hardcastle.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him.  Ay, 
you  have  taught  him  finely ! 

Mi's.  Hardcastle.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin  has  a 
good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning.  X 
do  n’t  think  a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend  fifteen 
hundred  a-year. 

Hardcastle.  Learning,  quotha !  a  mere  composition  of 
tricks  and  mischief. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Humor,  my  dear,  nothing  but  humor. 
Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the  boy  a  little 
humor. 

Hardcastle.  I ’d  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond.  If 
burning  the  footman’s  shoes,  frightening  the  maids,  and 
worrying  the  kittens,  be  humor,  he  has  it.  It  was  but 
yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig  to  the  back  of  my  chair, 
and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popt  my  bald  head  in 
Mrs.  Frizzle’s  face. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  am  I  to  blame  ?  The  poor  boy 
was  always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school  would 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


275 


be  his  death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a  little  stronger,  who 
knows  what  a  year  or  two’s  Latin  may  do  for  him 

Hardcastle.  Latin  for  him !  A  cat  and  fiddle.  No* 
no ;  the  alehouse  and  the  stable  are  the  only  schools  he’ll 
ever  go  to. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor 
boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan’t  have  him  long  among  us. 
Any  body  that  looks  in  his  face  may  see  he’s  consumptive. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the 
symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I ’m  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hardcastle.  And  truly  so  am  I ;  for  he  sometimes 
whoops  like  a  speaking  trumpet  —  (  Tony  hallooing  behind 
the  scenes.)  —  Oh,  there  he  goes  —  a  very  consumptive 
Ogure,  truly ! 

Enter  Tony ,  crossing  the  Stage. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my 
charmer?  Won’t  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of  your 
company,  lovey  ? 

Tony.  I ’m  in  haste,  mother  ;  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  shan’t  venture  out  this  raw  eve¬ 
ning,  my  dear ;  you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can ’t  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three  Pigeons 
expects  me  down  every  moment.  There’s  some  fun  go¬ 
ing  forward. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  the  alehouse,  the  old  place  ;  I  thought 
so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 


^76 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Tony  Not  so  low  neither.  There’s  Dick  Muggins, 
the  exciseman,  Jack  Slang,  the  horse-doctor,  little  Amin* 
tidab,  that  grinds  the  music-box,  and  Tom  Twist,  that 
spins  the  pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them  foi 
one  night  at  least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not  so  much 
mind ;  but  1  can ’t  abide  to  disappoint  myself. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (Detaining him,.)  You  shan’t  go. 

Tony.  I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  say  you  shan’t. 

Tony.  We  ’ll  see  which  is  the  strongest,  you  or  I. 

,  \_Exit ,  hauling  her  out 

Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  onfy 
spoil  each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  combina¬ 
tion  to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  of  doors  ?  There ’s 
my  pretty  darling,  Nate !  the  fashions  of  the  times  have 
almost  infected  her  too.  By  living  a  year  or  two  in  town, 
she  is  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French  frippery  as  the  best 
of  them 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence !  drest 
cut  as  usual,  my  Nate.  Goodness  !  what  a  quantity  of 
superfluous  silk  hast  thou  got  about  thee,  girl!  I  could 
never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age,  that  the  indigent  world 
could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings  of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  \  ou  know  our  agreement,  sir.  You 
allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits,  and  tc 
dress  in  my  own  manner ;  and  in  the  evening  I  put  on 
my  housewife’s  dress  to  please  you. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


277 


Hardcastle.  Well,  remember  I  insist  on  the  terms  of 
our  agreement  *,  and,  by  the  by,  I  believe  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  n’t  comprehend 
your  meaning. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  ex¬ 
pect  the  young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be  your  hus¬ 
band  from  town  this  very  day.  I  have  his  father’s  letter, 
in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and  that  he  in¬ 
tends  to  follow  him  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Indeed !  I  wish  I  had  known  some¬ 
thing  of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall  I  behave.  It ’s 
a  thousand  to  one  I  shan’t  like  him  ;  our  meeting  will  be 
so  formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  business,  that  I  shall  find 
no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hardcastle.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will  con¬ 
trol  your  choice  ;  but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom  I  have  pitched 
upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  of 
whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often.  The  young 
gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  designed  for  an 
employment  in  the  service  of  his  country.  I  am  told  he’s 
a  man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Is  he  ? 

Hardcastle.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I ’m  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more,  (kissmj 
his  hand )  he ’s  mine  —  I  ’ll  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he ’s  one  of  the 

24 


278 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


the  most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the 
world. 

Miss  Hardcasde.  Eh !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death 
again.  That  word  reserved  has  undone  all  the  rest  of 
his  accomplishments.  A  reserved  lover,  it  is  said,  always 
makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hardcasde.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  resides 
in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  virtues.  It 
was  the  very  feature  in  his  character  that  first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hardcasde .  He  must  have  more  striking  features 
to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so  young, 
so  handsome,  and  so  every  thing  as  you  mention,  I  believe 
he  ’ll  do  still.  I  think  I  ’ll  have  him. 

Hardcasde.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle. 
It ’s  more  than  an  even  wrager  he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hardcasde.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mortify 
one  so  ?  Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking  my 
heart  at  his  indifference,  I  ’ll  only  break  my  glass  for  its 
flattery,  set  my  cap  to  some  newer  fashion,  and  look  out 
for  some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hardcasde.  Bravely  resolved !  In  the  mean  time, 
I  ’ll  go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception :  as  we  sel 
dom  see  company,  they  want  as  much  training  as  a  com¬ 
pany  of  recruits  the  first  day’s  muster.  \_Exi  f. 

Miss  Hardcasde.  ( Alone.)  Lud,  this  news  of  papa’s 
puts  me  all  in  a  flutter.  Young,  handsome ;  these  he  pui 
last,  but  I  put  them  foremost.  Sensible,  good-natured ;  1 
like  all  that.  But  then,  reserved  and  sheepish ;  that  ’* 
much  against  him.  Yet  can ’t  he  be  cured  of  his  timidity 
by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  ?  Yes ;  and  can  t 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


279 


I __But  1  vow  I’m  disposing  of  the  husband,  before  1 
have  secured  the  lover. 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Rardcastle.  I’m  glad  you’re  come,  Neville,  my 
dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  evening: 
Is  there  anything  whimsical  about  me  ?  Is  it  one  ol  my 
well-looking  days,  child  ?  am  I  in  face  to  day  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I  look 
a^ain —  bless  me!  —  sure  no  accident  has  happened 
among  the  canary  birds  or  the  gold  fishes  ?  Has  your 
brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling  ?  or  has  the  last  novel 
been  too  moving? 

Miss  Rardcastle.  No;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have 
been  threatened  —  I  can  scarce  get  it  out  —  I  have  been 
threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Neville.  And  his  name  — — - 

Miss  Rardcastle.  Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  Indeed ! 

Miss  Rardcastle.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend  of 
Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder. 
I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when  we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Rardcastle.  Never. 

Miss  Neville.  He ’s  a  very  singular  char  acter,  I  as¬ 
sure  you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and  virtue,  he  is 
the  modestest  man  alive ;  but  his  acquaintance  give  him 
a  very  different  character  among  creatures  of  another 

stamp  —  you  understand  me. 

Miss  Rardcastle.  An  odd  character,  indeed.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  manage  him.  Ti^hat  shall  I  do!  dn 


280 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


think  no  more  of  him,  but  trust  to  occurrences  for  success. 
But  how  goes  on  your  own  affair,  my  dear  ?  has  my 
mother  been  courting  you  for  my  brother  Tony,  as  usual  ? 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our  agree¬ 
able  tete-a-teies.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred  tendei 
things,  and  setting  off  her  pretty  monster  as  the  very  pink 
of  perfection. 

Miss  Hardcastle .  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that  she 
actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is  no  small 
temptation.  Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole  management  of 
it,  I ’m  not  surprised  to  see  her  unwilling  to  let  it  go  out 
of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly  con¬ 
sists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But,  at 
any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but  constant,  I  make  no 
doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last.  However,  I  let  her 
suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son ;  and  she  never 
once  dreams  that  my  affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly. 
I  could  almost  love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature  at  bottom, 
and  I  ’m  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to  any  body 
but  himself.  But  my  aunt’s  bell  rings  for  our  afternoon’s 
walk  round  the  improvements.  Allens!  Courage  is 
necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Would  it  were  bed-time,  and  all  were 
welh  \Kxermi 


\ 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


251 


Scene  n.  —  an  alehouse  room 

Several  shabby  fellows  with  punch  and  tobacco  ;  Tony  ai 
the  head  of  the  table ,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest ,  a  mal¬ 
let  in  his  hand. 

Omnes.  Hurrea !  hurrea !  hurrea !  bravo  ! 

First  Fellow .  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song.  The 
Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song. 

Omnes .  Ay,  a  song,  a  song ! 

Tony.  Then  I  ’ll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I  made 
apon  this  alehouse,  The  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning ; 

Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 

Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 

Their  quis,  and  their  quaes,  and  their  quods , 

They  ’re  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroil. 

When  methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 

I  ’ll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 

But  when  you  come  down  with  year  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 

I  ’ll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  torodd^,  tor  ell 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 

Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here ’s  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever 

24* 


282 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons; 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 

Here ’s  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 


Omnes .  Bravo,  bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  The  Squire  has  got  some  spunk  in  him, 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays  he 
never  gives  us  nothing  that ’s  low. 

Third  Fellow.  Oh,  damn  any  thing  that ’s  low,  I  can¬ 
not  bear  it. 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel  thing 
at  any  time :  if  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a  concate¬ 
nation  accordingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master  Mug 
gins.  What  though  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a  bear,  a 
man  may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that.  May  this  be  my 
poison,  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but  to  the  very  genteel- 
est  of  tunes ;  ‘  Water  Parted,’  or  ‘  The  minuet  in  Ariadne.’ 

Second  Fellow.  TVdiat  a  pity  it  is  the  Squire  is  not 
come  to  his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publicans 
within  ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang.  I ’d  then 
show  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fellow.  Oh,  he  takes  after  his  own  father  for 
that.  To  be  sure,  old  Squire  Lumpkin  was  the  finest 
gentleman  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  winding  the 
straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare  or  a  wench, 
he  nevir  had  his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in  the  place, 
that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls,  in  the  whole 
county. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


283 


Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I’m  of  age,  I  ’ll  be  no  bastard, 

I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer 
and  the  miller’s  gray  mare  to  begin  with.  But  come,  my 
b  >ys,  drink  about  and  be  merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckon 
d.g.  Well,  Stingo,  what’s  the  matter? 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise 
rt  the  door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upon  the  forest ; 
and  they  are  talking  something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that’s  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

Landlord.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look  woundily 
like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I  ’ll  set 
them  right  in  a  twinkling.  [Exit  Landlord. 

Gentlemen,  as  they  may  n’t  be  good  enough  company  for 
you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I  ’ll  be  with  you  in  the 
squeezing  of  a  lemon.  [ Exeunt  mob. 

Tony.  (Alone.)  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me 
whelp  and  hound  this  half  year.  Now,  if  I  pleased,  I 
could  be  so  revenged  upon  the  old  grumbletonian.  But 
then  I ’m  afraid  —  afraid  of  what  ?  I  shall  soon  be  worth 
Rfteen  hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten  me  out  of  that 
ii  he  can. 

Enter  Landlord ,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marlow.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we 
had  of  it !  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across 
the  country,  and  we  have  come  above  threescore 


28  4 


SHE  STOOrS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable 
reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more  fre¬ 
quently  on  the  way. 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  X  am  unwilling  to  lay  my¬ 
self  under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet ;  and  cften 
stand  the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  te 
receive  any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I ’m  told  you  have 
been  inquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  these  parts. 
Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you  are  in  ? 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank  yon 
for  information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hastings.  No,  sir ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us - 

Tony ,  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the  road 
you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road  you  came, 
the  first  thing  I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that  —  you  have 
lost  your  way. 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came  ? 

Marlow.  That ’s  not  necessary  towards  directing  us 
where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence ;  but  question  for  question  is  all  fair, 
you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same  Hardcastle 
n  cross-grained,  old-fashioned,  whimsical  fellow,  with  an 
agly  face  :  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty  son  ? 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman ;  but  he 
has  the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping,  talk* 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


285 


ative  maypole;  the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agreeable 
youth,  that  every  body  is  fond  of? 

Marlow .  Oir  information  differs  in  this.  The  daugh¬ 
ter  is  said  to  be  well-bred,  and  beautiful ;  the  son  an  awk¬ 
ward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother’s  apron¬ 
string. 

Tony .  He-he-hem  ! — Then,  gentlemen,  all  I  have  to 
tell  you  is,  that  you  won’t  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle’s  house 
this  night,  I  believe. 

Bastings.  Unfortunate ! 

Tony.  It ’s  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  danger¬ 
ous  way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr. 
Hardcastle’s  ( winking  upon  the  Landlord ),  Mr.  Hard¬ 
castle’s,  of  Quagmire  Marsh  —  you  understand  me  ? 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle’s !  Lock-a-daisy,  my 
masters,  you  ’re  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong !  When  you 
came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you  should  have  crossed 
down  Squash  Lane. 

Marlow.  Cross  down  Squash  Lane  ? 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward* 
till  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet  ? 

Tony.  Ay  ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one  of 
them. 

Marlow.  O  sir,  you  ’re  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  side¬ 
ways,  till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  common :  there  you 
must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and  go  forward 
till  you  come  to  farmer  Murrain’s  barn.  Coming  to  the 
farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  then  tc 


286 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


the  left,  and  then  to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  fina 
out  the  old  mill - 

Marlow .  Zounds,  man !  we  could  as  soon  find  out  tiie 
longitude. 

Hastings.  What ’s  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception ; 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare  bed 
in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that  ’s  taken  up  by  three 
lodgers  already.  ( After  a  pause  in  which  the  rest  seem 
disconcerted )  I  have  hit  it :  do  n’t  you  think,  Stingo,  our 
landlady  could  accommodate  the  gentlemen  by  the  fire¬ 
side,  with  —  three  chairs  and  a  bolster  ? 

Hastings.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fire-side. 

Marlow.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bolster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you  ? —  then,  let  me  see,  —  what  if 
you  go  on  a  mile  farther,  to  the  Buck’s  Head ;  the  old 
Buck’s  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the  whole 
country. 

Hastings.  O  ho !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure 
for  this  night,  however. 

Landlord.  ( Apart  to  Tony.)  Sure,  you  ben’t  sending 
them  to  your  father’s  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that  out. 
(To  them.)  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward, 
till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house  by  the  road  side. 
You  ’ll  see  a  pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door.  That ’s 
the  sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly  about  you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants 
San ’t  miss  the  way  ? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


‘281 

Tony.  No,  no :  but  I  tell  you  though  the  landlord  is 
rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business  ;  so  he  wants  to  be 
thought  a  gentleman,  saving  your  presence,  he !  he !  he  3 
He  11  be  for  giving  you  his  company  ;  and,  ecod,  if  you 
mind  him,  he  ’ll  persuade  you  that  his  mother  was  an  al« 
derman,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  peace. 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure ;  but 
as  keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole 
country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we  shall 
want  no  further  connection.  We  are  to  turn  to  the  right, 
did  you  say  ? 

lony.  No,  no,  straight  forward;  I’ll  just  step  myself, 
and  show  you  a  piece  of  the  way.  ( To  the  Landlord.) 
Mum ! 

Landlord.  Ah,  bless  your  heart,  for  a  sweet,  pleasant 
- damned  mischievous  son  of  a  whore.  [Exeunt 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene  I. —  an  old-fashioned  nousE. 

Enter  Hardcastle ,  followed  by  three  or  four  awkward 

Servants . 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the  table 
exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you  these  three  days.  You 
all  know  your  posts  and  your  places,  and  can  show  that 
you  have  been  used  to  good  company,  without  ever  stir 
ring  from  home. 


288 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEB 


Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hardcastle.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to  pop 
out  and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted  rabbits 
in  a  warren. 

Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hardcastle.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from 
the  barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side  table;  and  you, 
Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to 
place  yourself  behind  my  chair.  But  you  ’re  not  to  stand 
so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets.  Take  your  hands 
from  your  pockets,  Roger  —  and  from  your  head,  you 
blockhead  you.  See  liow  Diggory  carries  his  hands. 
They  ’re  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that’s  no  great  matter. 

Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to 
hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for  the 
malitia.  And  so  being  upon  drill  — 

Hardcastle.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory 
You  must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests  ;  you  must  hear 
us  talk,  and  not  think  of  talking ;  you  must  see  us  drink, 
and  not  think  of  drinking ;  you  must  see  us  eat,  and  no 
think  of  eating. 

Diggoi'y.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that ’s  parfectly 
unpossible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating  going  for¬ 
ward,  ecod,  he ’s  always  wishing  for  a  mouthful  himself. 

Hardcastle.  Blockhead !  is  not  a  bellyful  in  the  kitclp 
sn  as  good  as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlor?  Stay  your  stom¬ 
ach  with  that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I’ll  make  a 
shift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in  the 
pantry. 

Hardcastle.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative.  Then,  ii 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


283 


I  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story,  al  table 
you  must  not  all  burst  out  a-laugliing,  as  if  you  made 
part  of  the  company. 

Dig  gory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell  the 
story  of  the  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room  ;  I  can  ’ t  help 
laughing  at  that— he!  he!  he!  — for  the  soul  of  me 
We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twenty  years  —  ha!  ha 
ha! 

Hardcastle .  Ha  !  ha !  ha  !  The  story  is  a  good  one. 
Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that;  but  still 
remember  to  be  attentive.  Suppose  one  of  the  company 
should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine,  how  will  you  behave  ?  A 
glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please,  ( To  Diggory)  —  Eh, 
why  do  n’t  you  move  ? 

Diggory,  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  courage, 
till  I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought  upo’  the  ta 
ble,  and  then  I’m  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hardcastle.  What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

First  Servant .  I ’m  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Servant .  I  ’in  sure  it ’s  no  pleace  of  mine. 

Third  Servant .  Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.  Wauns,  and  I ’m  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hardcastle.  You  numskulls  !  and  so  while,  like  your 
betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests  must  be 
starved.  0  you  dunces !  I  find  I  must  begin  all  over 

again - But  do  n’t  I  hear  a  coach  drive  into  the  yard  ? 

To  your  posts,  you  blockheads.  I  ’ll  go  in  the  mean  time, 
and  give  my  old  friend’s  son  a  hearty  welcome  at  the 
gate.  [Exit  Hardcastle. 

Diggoiy.  By  the  elevens,  my  place  is  quite  gone  out 
of  my  head. 


290 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Roger.  I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  every  where. 

First  Servant.  Where  the  devil  is  mine  ? 

Second  Servant.  My  pleace  is  to  be  no  where  at  all 
and  so  Ize  go  about  my  business. 

[" Exeunt  Servants ,  running  about,  as  if 
frightened,  severed  ways 

Enter  Servant,  with  candles,  showing  in  Marlow  and 

Hastings. 

Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome!  This 
way. 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  wel¬ 
come  once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean  room 
and  a  good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a  very  well-looking 
house :  antique,  but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having 
first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last 
comes  to  lew  contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed 
to  pay  all  these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  side¬ 
board,  or  a  marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put 
in  the  bill,  inflame  a  reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places  ; 
the  only  difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly 
for  luxuries,  in  bad  inns  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among  them. 
In  truth  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who  have 
seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with  your  natural  good  sense, 
and  your  many  opportunities,  could  never  yet  acquire  a 
requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Markov.  The  Englishman’s  malady.  Hut  tell  me, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


2(J1 


George,  where  coulcl  I  have  learned  that  assurance  yor 
talk  of?  My  life  has  been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college  or 
an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that  lovely  part  of  the  creation 
that  chiefly  teach  men  confidence.  I  don’t  know  that  1 
was  ever  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single  modest  wo¬ 
man,  except  my  mother.  —  But  among  females  of  another 
class,  you  know - 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent  enough, 
of  all  conscience. 

Marlow.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  reputation 
I  never  saw  such  an  idiot  —  such  a  trembler ;  you  look 
for  all  the  world  as  if  you  wanted  an  opportunity  of  steal¬ 
ing  out  of  the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that ’s  because  I  do  want  to  steal 
out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a  resolution 
to  break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I 
do  n’t  know  how,  a  single  glance  from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes 
has  totally  overset  my  resolution.  An  impudent  fellow 
may  counterfeit  modesty,  but  I  ’ll  be  hanged  if  a  modest 
man  can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things  to 
them,  that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar-maid  of 
an  inn,  or  even  a  college  bed-maker - 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can’t  say  fine  things  tc 
them  —  they  freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of 
a  comet,  or  a  burning  mountain,  or  some  such  bagatelle 
but  to  me,  a  modest  woman,  drest  out  in  all  her  finery,  is 
the  most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole  creation. 

Hastings.  Ila !  ha !  ha !  At  this  rate,  man,  how  an 
you  ever  expect  to  marry  ? 


£92 


SITE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Marlow.  Never;  unless,  as  among  kings  and  princes, 
my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like 
an  Eastern  bridegroom,  one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a 
wife  he  never  saw  before,  it  might  be  endured.  But  to 
go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal  courtship,  together 
with  the  episode  of  aunts,  grandmothers,  and  cousins,  and 
at  last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of  ‘  Madam, 
will  you  marry  me  ?  ’  No,  no,  that ’t  a  strain  much  above 
me,  I  assure  you. 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  be¬ 
having  to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  the  re¬ 
quest  of  your  father  ? 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies :  bow  very 
low ;  answer  yes,  or  no,  to  all  her  demands.  But  for  the 
rest,  I  do  n’t  think  I  shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face  till 
I  see  my  father’s  again. 

Hastings.  I ’m  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a 
friend,  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marlow.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my  chief 
inducement  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  forwarding 
your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you, 
the  family  do  n’t  know  you ;  as  my  friend,  you  are  sure 
of  a  reception,  and  let  honor  do  the  rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow! — But  I’ll  suppress  the 
em  >tion.  Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  carry  off  a 
fortune,  you  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would 
apply  to  for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville’s  person  is  all 
I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her  deceased  father’s 
consent,  and  her  own  inclination. 

Marlow.  Happy  man !  You  have  talents  and  art  to 
captivate  any  woman.  I ’m  doomed  to  adore  the  sex. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER, 


\ 


293 


and  yet  to  converse  with  the  only  part  of  it  I  despise. 
This  stammer  in  my  address,  and  this  awkward  unpre¬ 
possessing  visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit  me  to  soar 
above  the  reach  of  a  milliner’s  ’prentice,  or  one  of  the 
Duchesses  of  Drury-lane.  Pshaw  !  this  fellow  here  to 
interrupt  us. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardccistle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow?  Sir,  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  It ’s  not  my  way,  you  see,  to  receive  my  friends 
with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I  like  to  give  them  a  hearty 
reception  in  the  old  style  at  my  gate.  I  like  to  see  their 
horses  and  trunks  taken  care  of. 

Marlow.  ( Aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from  the 
servants  already.  (  To  him.)  We  approve  your  caution 
and  hospitality,  sir.  (  To  Hastings.)  I  have  been  think¬ 
ing,  George,  of  changing  our  travelling  dresses  in  the 
morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hardcastle.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you  ’ll  use  no  ceremo¬ 
ny  in  this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you’re  right:  the  first 
blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign 
with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow  —  Mr.  Hastings  —  gentle¬ 
men  —  pray  be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is 
Liberty-hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do  just  as  you  please 
here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  toe 
fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is  over 
[  think  to  reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure  a  retreat. 

2  5  4 


294 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hardcastle.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  we 
went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  summoned  the  gar¬ 
rison  — 

Marlow.  Don’t  you  think  the  ventre  d'or  waistcoat 
will  do  with  the  plain  brown? 

Hardcastle.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which 
might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men - 

Hastings.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but  very 
poorly. 

Hardcastle.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you,  he 
summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men - 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hardcastle.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thou¬ 
sand  men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and 
other  implements  of  war.  Now,  says  the  Duke  of  Marl¬ 
borough  to  George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him  —  ^  ou 
must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks  —  ‘I’ll  pawn  my 
dukedom,’  says  he,  ‘  but  I  take  that  garrison  without  spill¬ 
ing  a  drop  of  blood.’  So - 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a  glass 
of  punch  in  the  mean  time  ;  it  would -help  us  to  carry  cn 
(he  siege  with  vigor. 

Hardcastle.  Punch,  sir !  ( Aside.)  This  is  the  most 

unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with. 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  punch.  A  glass  of  warm  punch, 
after  our  journey,  will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Liberty- 
hall,  you  know. 

Enter  Roger  with  a  cup. 

Hardcastle.  Here ’s  a  cup,  sir. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


295 


Marloiv.  ( Aside.)  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty-hall, 
will  only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hardcastle.  ( Taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you  ’ll  find  it  to 
four  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands,  and 
[  believe  you  ’ll  own  the  ingredients  are  tolerable.  Will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir  ?  Here,  Mr.  Marlow” 
here  is  to  our  better  acquaintance.  ( Drinks.) 

Marlow.  ( Aside.)  A  very  impudent  fellow  this ;  but 
he’s  a  character,  and  I’ll  humor  him  a  little.  Sir,  my 
service  to  you.  ( Drinks.) 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give 
us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he’s  an  innkeeper,  be¬ 
fore  he  has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old 
friend,  I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  Warm  work,  now  and  then,  at  elec¬ 
tions,  I  suppose. 

Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work  over. 
Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  electing 
each  other,  there  is  no  business  ‘  for  us  that  sell  ale.’ 

Hastings.  So,  then,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  1 
find. 

Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time,  in¬ 
deed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government, 
like  other  people ;  but,  finding  myself  every  day  grow 
more  angry,  and  the  government  growing  no  better,  I  left 
it  to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more  trouble  my  head 
about  Ilyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn,  than  about  Ally  Croak¬ 
er.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

Hastings.  So  that  with  eating  above  staiiw  and  drink 
fog  belcw,  with  receiving  your  friends  within  and  am  us 


296 


_ 


SHB  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER, 

ing  them  without,  you  lead  a  good,  pleasant,  bustling 
life  of  it. 

Hardccistle.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that ’s  cer 
tain.  Half  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in 
this  very  parlor. 

Marlow.  ( After  drinking.)  And  you  have  an  argu¬ 
ment  in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in  West- 
minster-hall. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little 
philosophy. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  of  an  inkeeper’s  philosophy. 

Hastings.  So,  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you 
attack  them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason 
manageable,  you  attack  it  with  your  philosophy ;  if  you 
find  they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with  this. 
Here ’s  your  health,  my  philosopher.  ( Drinks.) 

Hardcastle.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you ;  ha !  ha !  ha ! 
Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene, 
when  he  fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade.  You 
shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  believe 
it ’s  almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your 
philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper  ? 

Hardcastle.  For  supper,  sir!  (Aside.)  Was  evei 
such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house ! 

Marloio.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir ;  I  begin  to  feel  an  ap¬ 
petite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in  the  larder, 
l  promise  you. 

Hardcastle.  ( Aside.)  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never  my 
eyes  beheld.  (  To  him.)  Why,  really,  sir,  as  for  supper 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


291 


J  can ’t  well  tell.  My  Dorothy  and  the  cook- maid  settle 
these  things  between  them.  I  leave  these  kind  of  things 
entirely  to  them. 

Marlow,  You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hardcastle.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I  believe  they  are 
in  actual  consultation  upon  what  s  for  supper  this  mo¬ 
ment  in  the  kitchen. 

Marlow.  Then  I  beg  they  ’ll  admit  me  as  one  of  their 
privy-council.  It ’s  a  way  I  have  got.  When  I  travel  1 
always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let  the  cook 
be  called.  No  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Hardcastle.  O  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least ;  yet  I  do  n’t 
know  how,  our  Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not  very  com¬ 
municative  upon  these  occasions.  Should  we  send  for 
her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

•  Hastings.  Let ’s  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then.  ] 
ask  it  as  a  favor.  I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my 
bill  of  fare. 

Marlow.  (  To  Hardcastle ,  who  looks  at  them  with  sur¬ 
prise.)  Sir,  he’s  very  right,  and  it’s  my  way  too. 

Hardcastle.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here. 
Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-niglit’s  sup¬ 
per  :  I  believe  it’s  drawn  out. — Your  manner,  Mr.  Has¬ 
tings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel  Wallop.  It 
was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of  hh  supper 
till  he  had  eaten  it. 

Enter  Roger. 

Hastings.  (Aside.)  All  upon  the  high  rope  !  His 
uncle  a  colonel !  we  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being 
a  justice  of  the  peace.  But  let’s  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Martov).  (Perusing.)  What’s  here  ?  For  the  first 


298 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

course;  for  the  second  course;  for  the  dessert.  The 
devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have  brought  down  the  whole 
Joiners’  Company,  or  the  Corporation  of  Bedford,  to  eat 
up  such  a  supper?  Two  or  three  little  things,  clean  and 
comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.  But  let ’s  hear  it. 

Marlow.  ( Reading .)  ‘  For  the  first  course, — at  the 

top,  a  pig,  and  pruin-sauce.’ 

Hastings.  Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Marlow.  And  damn  your  pruin-sauce,  say  I. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hun- 
gry,  pig  with  pruin-sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Marlow.  ‘At  the  bottom  a  calf’s  tongue  and  brains.’ 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my  good 
sir*  I  do  n’t  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  them¬ 
selves. 

Hardcastle.  ( Aside.)  Their  impudence  confounds  me. 
(  To  them.)  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make  what 
alterations  you  please.  Is  there  any  thing  else  you  wish 
to  retrench,  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Marlow.  ‘  Item :  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and  sau¬ 
sages,  a  Florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish  of  tiff 
—  taff  —  taffety  cream !  ’ 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes ;  I  shall  be  as 
much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and  yellow  din¬ 
ner  at  the  French  ambassador’s  table.  I ’m  for  plain 
eating. 

Hardcastle.  I ’m  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  nothing 
you  like ;  but  if  there  be  any  thing  you  have  a  particular 
fancy  to - 

Marlow.  Why,  really  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  ex* 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEK. 


299 


quisite,  that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  another. 
Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much  for  supper.  And 
now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and  properly  taken 
care  of. 

Hardcastle .  I  entreat  you  ’ll  leave  all  that  to  me.  You 
rim  11  not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you  !  I  protest,  sir,  you  must 
excuse  me :  I  always  look  to  these  things  myself. 

Hardcastle.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you  ’ll  make  yourself 
easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I ’m  resolved  on  it.  [Aside.)  A 
very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  sir,  I’m  resolved  at  least  to  attend 
you.  (Aside.)  This  may  be  modern  modesty,  but  I 
never  saw  any  thing  look  so  like  old-fashioned  impudence. 

[. Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hastings.  ( Alone.)  So  I  find  this  fellow’s  civilities 
begin  to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  at 
those  assiduities  which  are  meant  to  please  him  ?  Ha ! 
what  do  I  see?  Miss  Neville,  bv  all  that ’s  happy  ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings !  To  what  unex- 
psctcd  good  fortune  —  to  what  accident,  am  I  to  ascribe 
this  happy  meeting? 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as  I 
could  never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Constance 
at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn!  sure  you  mistaks:  my  aunt, 
my  guardian,  lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to 
think  this  house  an  inn  ? 


300 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  I  came 
down,  and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn,  I  assure 
you.  A  young  fellow  whom  we  accidentally  met  at  a 
house  hard  by,  directed  us  hither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hopeful 
cousin’s  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often  ; 
ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you?  he 
of  whom  I  have  such  just  apprehensions  ? 

Miss  Neville.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  1 
assure  you.  You ’d  adore  birr  if  you  knew  how  heartily 
he  despises  me.  My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  underta¬ 
ken  to  court  me  for  him,  and  actually  begins  to  think  she 
has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler!  You  must  know, 
my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportunity 
of  my  friend’s  visit  here  to  get  admittance  into  the  family. 
The  horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now  fatigued  with 
their  journey,  but  they  ’ll  soon  be  refreshed  ;  and,  then,  if 
my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her  faithful  Hastings,  we  shall 
soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among  slaves  the 
laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  Nev  ']le.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though  ready 
to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune  behind 
with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me  by 
ray  uncle,  the  India  director,  and  chiefly  consists  in  jew¬ 
els.  I  have  been  for  some  time  persuading  my  aunt  to 
(et  me  wear  them.  I  fancy  I ’m  very  near  succeeding 
The  instant  they  are  put  into  my  possession,  you  shall 
find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  myself  yours. 

Hast  mgs.  Perish  the  baubles  !  Your  person  is  all  i 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


301 


desire.  In  the  mean  time,  my  friend  Marlow  must  no! 
be  let. into  his  mistake.  I  know  the  strange  reserve  of 
his  temper  is  such,  that  it  abruptly  informed  of  it,  he 


would  instantly  quit  the  house  before  our  plan  was  ripe 
for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the  de- 
caption? — Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned  from  walk* 
ing  —  What  if  we  still  continue  to  deceive  him  ? —  This, 
this  way -  £  They  confer . 


Enter  Marlow. 


Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  tease 
me  beyond  bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill  man¬ 
ners  to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  himself, 
but  his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They  talk  of 
coming  to  sup  with  us  too ;  and  then,  I  suppose,  we  are 
to  run  the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest  of  the  family. 
What  have  we  got  here  ? 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles !  Let  me  congratulate 
you  —  The  most  fortunate  accident ! —  Who  do  you  think 
is  just  alighted  ? 

Marlow.  Cannot  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcastle  and 
Miss  Neville.  Give  me  lea\  e  to  introduce  Miss  Con¬ 
stance  Neville  to  your  acquaintance.  Happening  to  dine 
in  the  neighborhood,  they  called  on  their  return  to  take 
fresh  horses  here.  Miss  Hardcastle  has  just  slept  into  the 
next  room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant.  Was  n’t  it 
lucky  ?  eh ! 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  I  have  been  mortified  enough  of 

26 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


$01 

all  conscience,  and  here  comes  something  to  complete  my 
embarrassment. 

Hastings .  Well,  but  was  n’t  it  the  most  fortunate  thing 
in  the  world  ? 

Marlow .  Oh,  yes.  Very  fortunate  —  a  mos*  rnyful 
encounter.  But  our  dresses,  George,  you  know,  are  in 
disorder  —  What  if  we  should  postpone  the  happiness  till 
to-morrow  ?  —  To-morrow  at  her  own  house  It  will  be 
every  bit  as  convenient  —  and  rather  more  respectful  — 
To-morrow  let  it  be.  [  Offering  to  go. 

Hastings.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  ceremony  will 
displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  show  the 
ardor  of  your  impatience.  Besides,  she  knows  you  are 
in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to  see  her. 

Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil !  How  shall  I  support  it  ?  — 
Hem !  hem !  Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  You  are  to 
assist  me,  you  know.  I  shall  be  confoundedly  ridiculous. 
Yet  hang  it !  I  ’ll  take  courage.  Hem ! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man  !  it ’s  but  the  first  plunge,  and 
all ’s  over.  She ’s  but  a  woman,  you  know. 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most  to 
encounter. 

Enter  Mss  Hardcastle ,  as  returned  from  walking. 

Hastings.  ( Introducing  them.)  Miss  Hardcastle,  Mr. 
Marlow,  I ’m  proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of  such  mer¬ 
it  together,  that  only  want  to  know,  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  Now  for  meeting  my  mod¬ 
est  gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his  own 
manner.  (After  a  pause ,  in  which  he  appears  very  uneasy 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  303 

mid  disconcerted.)  I'm  glad  of  jour  safe  arrival  sir 
I ’m  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some 
Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be  sori^ 
—  madam — or  rather  glad  of  any  accident?  —  that  are 
so  agreeably  concluded.  Hem ! 

Hastings.  (  To  him.)  You  never  spoke  better  in  youi 
whole  life.  Keep  it  up,  and  I  ’ll  insure  you  the  victory. 

Miss  Ilardcastle.  I ’m  afraid  you  flatter  sir.  You 
that  have  seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company,  can  find 
little  entertainment  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  country. 

Marlow.  (  Gathering  courage.)  I  have  lived,  indeed, 
in  the  world,  madam ;  but  I  have  kept  very  little  compa¬ 
ny.  I  have  been  but  an  observer  upon  life,  madam,  while 
others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville .  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to  enjoy 
it  at  last. 

Hastings.  (To  him.)  Cicero  never  spoke  better. 
Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance  for  ever. 

Marlow  ( To  him.)  Hem !  stand  by  me  then,  and 
when  I ’m  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up 
again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life, 
were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you  must  have 
Had  much  more  to  censure  than  to  approve. 

Marlow.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing 
to  be  amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an  oi 
ject  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hastings.  ( To  him.)  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoks 
bo  well  in  your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcastle,  I  se? 
that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow  arc  going  to  be  very  good  core 


804  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

pany.  I  believe  our  being  here  will  but  embarrass  tha 
interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like 
your  company  of  all  things.  (To  him.)  Zounds 
George,  sure  you  won’t  go?  how  can  you  leave  us ? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation,  so 
we  ’ll  retire  to  the  next  room.  ( To  him.)  You  do  n’t 
consider,  man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a  little  tete-a-tete 
of  our  own.  (Exeunt. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (After  a  pause.)  But  you  have  not 
been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir :  the  ladies,  1 
should  hope,  have  employed  some  part  of  your  addresses. 

Marlow.  (. Relapsing  into  timidity.)  Pardon  me,  mad¬ 
am,  I  —  I  —  I  —  as  yet  have  studied  —  only  —  to  —  de¬ 
serve  them. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very  worst 
way  to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  converse 
only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible  part  of  the  sex  — 
But  I ’m  afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  at  all,  sir ;  there  is  nothing  l 
like  so  much  as  grave  conversation  myself ;  I  could  hear 
it  for  ever.  Indeed  I  have  often  been  surprised  how  a 
man  of  sentiment  could  ever  admire  those  light,  auy 
pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It ’s - a  disease  — —  of  the  mind,  mada m. 

In  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who,  wanting 
a  relish - for - um  —  u  —  urn  — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There  mast 
be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures,  pro 
tend  to  despise  what  they  are  incapable  of  tasting. 


BHE  STOOTS  TO  CONQUER. 


305 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better 
expressed.  And  I  can’t  help  observing - a  — — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  ( Aside .)  Who  could  ever  suppose 
this  fellow  impudent  upon  some  occasions  !  ( To  him.) 

You  were  going  to  observe,  sir - 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam  —  I  protest,  mad¬ 
am,  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  ( To 
him.)  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of  hy¬ 
pocrisy- —  something  about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy, 
there  are  few  who,  upon  strict  inquiry,  do  not  —  a  — 
a  — — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Marlow.  (Aside.)  Egad!  and  that’s  more  than  I 
do  myself. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  mean  that,  in  this  hypocritical 
age,  there  are  a  few  who  do  not  condemn  in  public  what 
they  practise  in  private,  and  think  they  pay  every  debt 
to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam ;  those  rvho  have  most  virtue 
in  their  mouths,  have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But 
Em  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least,  sir ;  there’s  some¬ 
thing  so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such 
life  and  force  —  Pray,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying - that  there 

are  some  occasions— -when  a  total  want  of  courage,  mad 

am,  destroys  all  the - and  puts  us - upon  —  a  — 

a  —  a - 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  agree  with  you  entirely  :  a  wan 

26* 


306 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


of  courage  upon  some  occasions,  assumes  the  appearance 
of  ignorance,  and  betrays  us  when  we  most  want  to  ex 
cel.  I  beg  you  ’ll  proceed. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam  — 
but  I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next  room.  .1 
would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more 
agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life.  Fray  go  on. 

Marlow .  Yes,  madam,  I  was - But  she  beckons 

us  to  join  her.  Madam,  shall  I  do  myself  the  honor  to 
attend  yon  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Well,  then,  I  ’ll  follow. 

Marlow.  ( Aside.)  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue  h&r 
done  for  me.  [ Exit 

Miss  Hardcastle.  (Alone.)  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Was  there 
ever  such  a  sober,  sentimental  interview  ?  I’m  certain 
he  scarce  looked  in  my  face  the  whole  time.  Yet  the 
fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable  bashfulness,  is  pretty  well 
too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried  in  his  fears, 
that  it  fatigues  one  more  than  ignorance.  If  I  could 
teach  him  a  little  confidence,  it  would  be  doing  somebody 
that  I  know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who  is  that  some¬ 
body  That,  faith,  is  a  question  I  can  scarce  answer. 

[j Exit 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville ,  followed  by  Mrs .  Hardcastk 

and  Hastings. 

Tony  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin  Con?  3 
wonder  you  ’re  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to  on**’* 
»wn  relations,  and  net  be  to  blame. 


\ 


Tony.  What  do  yon  follow  me  for,  Cousin  Con?  I  wonder  you’r* 
not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. — p.  306. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


307 


Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you 
want  to  make  me  though  ;  but  it  won’t  do.  I  tell  you, 
cousin  Con,  it  won’t  do ;  so  I  beg  you  ’ll  keep  your  dis¬ 
tance  —  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

\_She  follows ,  coquetting  him  to  the  back  scene. 

Mrs.  Hardcastlc.  Well,  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you  axe 
very  entertaining.  There ’s  nothing  in  the  world  I  love 
to  talk  of  so  much  as  London,  and  the  fashions  ;  though 
I  was  never  there  myself. 

Hastings.  Never  there  !  You  amaze  me  !  From  your 
air  and  manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been  bred  all  your 
life  either  at  Ranelagh,  St.  James’s,  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  sir,  you  ’re  only  pleased  to  say 
bo.  We  country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all.  I  'm 
in  love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to  raise  me  above 
Borne  of  our  neighboring  rustics ;  but  who  can  have  a 
manner,  that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the  Grotto 
Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such  places,  where  the  nobili¬ 
ty  chiefly  resort  ?  All  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy  London  at 
second-hand.  I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from 
the  Scandalous  Magazine,  and  have  all  the  fashions,  as 
they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the  two  Miss  Rickets  of 
Crooked  Lane.  Pray,  how  do  you  like  this  head,  Mr 
Hasting?’  ? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degage e,  upon  my 
word,  madam.  Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastlc.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  Iron* 
a  print  in  the  Ladies  Memorandum-book  for  the  last 
year. 

Hastings.  Indeed !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box  at  the 


308 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


play-house,  would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  ray  Lad? 
Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle .  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began,  there 
is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman ;  so  one 
must  dress  a  little  particular,  or  one  may  escape  in  the 
crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam,  in 
any  dress.  ( Bowing.) 

Mrs.  Hardoastle.  Yet  what  signifies  my  dressing,  when 
I  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as  Mr.  Hard 
castle  ?  all  I  can  say  will  never  argue  down  a  single  but¬ 
ton  from  his  clothes.  I  have  often  wanted  him  to  throw 
off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was  bald,  to  plas¬ 
ter  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam ;  for,  as  among  ihe 
ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the  men  there  are 
none  old. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer 
was  ?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said  1 
only  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  convert  it  into  a 
icte  for  my  own  wearing. 

Hastings.  Intolerable !  At  your  age  you  may  weai 
what  you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you 
take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the  mode ;  but 
1  ’m  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the  ensuing 
winter. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  Seriously  ?  Then  I  shall  be  toe 
young  for  the  fashion. 

Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels  tiU 


SHE  STOOPS  .TO  CONQUER.  80a 

she’s  past  forty.  For  instance,  miss  there,  in  a  polite 
circle,  would  be  considered  as  a  child  —  a  mere  maker  of 
samplers. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  yet,  my  niece  thinks  herself  as 
much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels,  as  the  oldest  of 
us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she  ?  And  that  young  gen 
fcleman  —  a  brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted 
to  each  other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in 
and  out  ten  times  a-dav,  as  if  they  were  man  and  wife 
already.  (To  them.)  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft  things 
are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Constance  this  evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things  ;  but  that 
it ’s  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod  !  I  ’ve  not 
a  place  in  the  house  now  that  ’s  left  to  myself,  but  the 
stable. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear  :  he’s 
in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There ’s  something  generous  in  my 
cousin’s  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces,  to  be  forgiven 
in  private. 

Tony.  That ’s  a  damned  confounded  —  crack. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah !  he’s  a  sly  one.  Do  n’t  you 
think  they  ’re  like  each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr.  Has* 
lings?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T.  They’re  ol  a 
§ize,  too.  Back  to  back,  my  pretties,  thet  Mr.  Hastings 
may  see  you.  Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you. 

( Measuring .) 

Mis*  Neville .  0  lud !  he  has  almost  cracked  my  head 


310 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Mrs,  Uardcastle.  Oh,  the  monster !  for  shame,  Tony 
You  a  man,  and  behave  so  ! 

Tony.  If  I ’m  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod 
1  ’ll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Harclcastle.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that  I  ’rr 
to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your  education  ?  I 
that  have  rocked  you  in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty 
mouth  with  a  spoon  ?  Did  not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to 
make  you  genteel  ?  Did  not  I  prescribe  for  you  every 
day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt  was  operating  ? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have 
been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone 
through  every  receipt  in  the  Complete  Housewife  ten 
times  over ;  and  you  have  thoughts  of  coursing  me  through 
Quincey  next  spring.  But,  ecod !  I  tell  you,  T  11  not  be 
made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Uardcastle.  Wasn’t  it  all  for  your  good,  viper? 
Was  n’t  it  all  for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you ’d  let  me  and  my  good  alone,  then. 
Snubbing  this  way  when  I ’m  in  spirits !  If  I ’m  to  have 
any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself;  not  to  keep  dinging  it, 
dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  That ’s  false ;  I  never  see  you  when 
you  ’re  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the  alehouse 
or  kennel.  1  ’m  never  to  be  delighted  with  your  agreea* 
ble  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster  ! 

Tony.  Ecod  !  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the  wild 
est  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  ever  the  like?  But  I  see  he 
Wants  to  break  my  heart ;  I  see  he  does. 

Hastings.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


811 


young  gentleman  a  little.  I ’m  certain  I  can  persuade 
him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs .  Hardcaslle.  Well,  I  must  retire.  Come,  Con¬ 
stance,  my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretched¬ 
ness  of  my  situation :  was  ever  poor  woman  so  plagued 
with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking,  undutiful  hoy ! 

[ Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tony .  (  Singing.) 

There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 

And  fain  would  have  his  will. 

Rang  do  didlo  dee. 

Do  n’t  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It ’s  the  comfort  of 
her  heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book 
for  an  hour  together ;  and  they  said  they  liked  the  book 
the  better  the  more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you  ’re  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I  find, 
my  pretty  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That  *s  as  I  find  ’ura. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother’s  choosing,  I  dare 
answer  ?  And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty,  well-tem¬ 
pered  girl. 

Tony.  That ’s  because  you  do  n’t  know  her  as  well 
as  I.  Ecod  !  I  know  every  inch  about  her  ;  and  there’s 
not  a  more  bitter  cantanckerous  toad  in  all  Christendom 

Hastings.  {Aside.)  Pretty  encouragement  for  a  lover 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that.  She 
has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt  the 
first  day’s  breaking. 

Hastings.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent. 


312 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she ’s  with 
her  playmates,  she ’s  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her  that 
charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks  up, 
and  you  Ye  flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little  beauty 
Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox  !  She ’s  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun. 
Ah !  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you 
might  then  talk  of  beauty.  Ecod  !  she  has  two  eyes  as 
black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as  broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit 
cushion.  She ’d  make  two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that  would 
take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands  ? 

Tony.  Anan ! 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take  Miss 
Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and  your  dear  Betsey? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend — for 
who  would  take  her  ? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I’ll  engage 
t<  whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never  hear  more 
of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you !  Ecod  I  will  to  the  last  drop  of 
my  blood.  I  ’ll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise  that 
shall  trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling,  and  may  be  get  you 
a  part  of  her  fortin  besides,  in  jewels,  that  you  little 
dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  of 
spirit 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


3)3 


Tony.  Come  along,  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of 
my  spirit  before  you  have  done  with  me.  (, Singing .) 


We  are  the  boys 
That  fears  no  noise. 

Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar. 

[  Exexird 


ACT  THIRD 

Enter  Hardcastle . 

Hardcastle.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles 
mean  by  recommending  his  son  as  the  modes  test  young 
man  in  town  ?  To  me  he  appears  the  most  impudent 
piece  of  brass  that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has 
taken  possession  of  the  easy  chair  by  the  tire-side  already. 
He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlor,  and  desired  me  to  see 
them  taken  care  of.  I ’m  desirous  to  know  how  his  im¬ 
pudence  affects  my  daughter.  She  will  certainly  be  shock- 
ed  at  it. 


Enter  Miss  Hardcastle ,  'plainly  dressed. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed 
your  dress,  as  I  bid  you ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was  no 
great  occasion. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in  obey¬ 
ing  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe  them 
without  ever  debating  their  propriety. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you 

27 


314 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


«ome  cause,  particularly  when  1  recommended  my  modesj 
gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  taught  me  to  expect  something 
extraordinary,  and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the  de¬ 
scription. 

Hardcastle.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life !  He 
has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it ;  and 
a  man  of  the  world,  too ! 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad  —  what  a  fool 
was  I,  to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  modesty  by 
travelling.  He  might  as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  masquerade 

Miss  Hardcastle.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hardcastle.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company  and 
a  French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure  you  mistake,  papa.  A  French 
dancing-master  could  never  have  taught  him  that  timid 
look — that  awkward  address —  that  bashful  manner. 

Hardcastle.  Whose  look  ?  whose  manner,  child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow’s :  his  mauvaise  hmte, , 
his  timidity,  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hardcastle.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you :  for  I 
think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that  ever 
astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally !  I  never  saw 
any  one  so  modest. 

Hardcastle.  And  can  you  be  serious  ?  I  never  saw 
such  a  bouncing,  swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  bora 
Bully  Dawson  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sumrisinp !  He  met  me  with  a  re- 


* 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


315 


speclful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed  on  the 
ground. 

Hardccistle.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly  air 
and  a  familiarity  that  made  my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hardcastlc.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and 
respect ;  censured  the  manners  of  the  age ;  admired  the 
prudence  of  girls  that  never  laughed,  tired  me  with  apol¬ 
ogies  for  being  tiresome,  then  left  the  room  with  a  bow 
Rnd  ‘  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world  detain  you/ 

Hardccistle.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his 
life  before,  asked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited  for 
an  answer,  interrupted  my  best  remarks  with  some  silly 
pun,  and  when  I  was  in  my  best  story  of  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if  I  had  not 
a  good  hand  at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he  asked  your 
father  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mis¬ 
taken. 

Hardcastle.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself,  I ’m 
determined  he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I  take 
him,  he  shall  never  have  mine. 

Hardcastle.  In  one  thing,  then,  we  are  agreed— -to 
reject  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes  — but  upon  conditions.  For  if 
^ou  should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  presum¬ 
ing ;  if  you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I  more  impor¬ 
tunate  —  I  do  n’t  know  —  the  fellow  is  well  enough  fora 
man  —  certainly  we  do  n’t  meet  many  such  at  a  horse-race 
i  n  the  country. 

Hardcastle.  If  we  should  find  him  so - But  that ’s 


316 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


impossible.  The  first  appearance  has  done  my  business 
l ’m  seldom  deceived  in  that. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good 
qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 

Hardcastle .  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow’s  outside  to 
her  taste,  she  then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest  of  his  fur¬ 
niture.  With  her  a  smooth  face  stands  for  good  sense, 
and  a  genteel  figure  for  every  virtue. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  brung 
with  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense,  won’t  end  with  a 
sneer  at  my  understanding ! 

Hardcastle.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr. 
Brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions,  he 
may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken, 
what  if  we  go  to  make  farther  discoveries  ? 

Hardcastle.  Agreed.  But  depend  on ’t,  I’m  in  the 
right. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And,  depend  on ’t,  I ’m  not  much  in 
the  wrong.  [ Exeunt 

Enter  Tony ,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are.  My 
cousin  Con’s  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother  shan’t 
cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither  O  my 
genus,  is  that  you  ? 


Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed 
^ith  your  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with 


s 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


31? 


pretending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that  you  are  willing 
to  be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses  wdll  be  refreshed  in 
a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to  set  off. 

Tony.  And  here ’s  something  to  bear  your  charges  by 
the  way  — ( giving  the  casket ) —  your  sweetheart’s  jewels. 
Keep  them ;  and  hang  those,  I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of 
one  of  them. 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from 
your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I  ’ll  tell  you  no  fibs. 
I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had  not  a 
key  to  every  draw  in  my  mother’s  bureau,  how  could  I  go 
to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I  do  ?  An  honest  man  may 
rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hastings .  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  Miss  Neville  is  endeavoring  to  procure 
them  from  her  aunt  this  very  instant.  If  she  succeeds, 
it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way,  at  least,  of  obtaining 
them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will  be. 
But  I  knowhow  it  will  be  well  enough,  —  she’d  as  soon 
part  with  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resentment 
when  she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment ;  leave  me  to 
manage  that.  I  do  n’t  value  her  resentment  the  bounce 
of  a  cracker.  Zounds  !  here  they  are.  Morrice !  Prance  I 

\_Exit  Hastings 

Tony ,  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  and  Miss  Neville. 

9 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me 

27* 


518 


SIJE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Such  a  girl  as  you  want  jewels !  It  will  be  time  enough 
for  jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years  hence,  when  your  beau 
ty  begins  to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty, 
w  ill  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none. 
That  natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  ornaments. 
Besides,  child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at  present.  Don’t  you 
see  half  the  ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  my  Lady  Kill- 
daylight,  and  Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them,  carry 
their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste  and 
marcasites  back  ? 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  somebody 
that  shall  be  nameless  would  like  me  best  with  all  my 
little  finery  about  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle .  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and  then 
6ee  if,  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want  any  better 
sparklers.  What  do  you  think,  Tony,  my  dear  ?  Does 
your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels  in  your  eyes  to  set  off 
her  beauty  ? 

Tony.  That ’s  as  hereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it  would 

oblige  me. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  parcel  cf  old-fashioned  rose  and 
table-cut  things.  They  would  make  you  look  like  the 
court  of  King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show.  Besides,  I  be¬ 
lieve  I  can ’t  readily  come  at  them.  They  may  be  miss¬ 
ing  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony.  (Apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle.)  Then  why  don’t 
you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she ’s  so  longing  for  them  ?  TeU 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


319 


hei  they’re  lost.  It  ’s  the  only  way  to  quiet  her.  Say 
they  ’re  lost,  and  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  ( Apart  to  Tony.)  You  know,  my 
dear,  I  *m  only  keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say  they 
are  gone,  you  ’ll  bear  me  witness,  will  you  ?  He !  he !  he  ! 

Tony .  Never  fear  me.  Ec3d !  I  ’ll  say  I  saw  them 
taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Neville .  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam  — • 
just  to  be  permitted  to  show  them  as  relics,  and  then  they 
may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs .  Hardcastle.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear  Con¬ 
stance,  if  I  could  find  them  you  should  have  them.  They 
are  missing,  I  assure  you.  Lost,  for  aught  I  know  ;  but 
we  must  have  patience,  wherever  they  are. 

Miss  Neville.  I  ’ll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shallow 
pretence  to  deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable  to  be 
so  slightly  kept,  and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the  loss  — 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  n’t  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If 
they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But  my  son 
knows  they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  missing 
and  not  to  be  found ;  I  ’ll  take  my  oath  on ’t. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my  dear  ; 
for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we  should  not  lose  our 
patience.  See  me,  how  calm  I  am. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the 
misfortunes  of  others. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Now,  1  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good 
sense  should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery.  We 
shall  soon  find  them ;  and  in  the  mean  time  you  shall 
make  use  of  my  garnets  till  your  jewels  be  found. 


$20 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Miss  Seville.  I  detest  garnets. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the 
world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You  have  often  seet. 
how  well  they  look  upon  me.  You  shall  have  them.  [Exit 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You  shan’t 
stir.  Was  ever  any  thing  so  provoking,  to  mislay  my 
own  jewels  and  force  me  to  wear  her  trumpery? 

Tony.  Do  n’t  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  garnets, 
take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own  already, 
i  have  stolen  them  out  of  her  bureau,  and  she  does  not 
Know  it.  Fly  to  your  spark ;  he  ’ll  tell  you  more  of  the 
matter.  Leave  me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  cousin ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She ’s  here,  and  has  missed  them  al¬ 
ready.  [Exit  Miss  Neville.']  Zounds  !  how  she  fidgets 
and  spits  about  like  a  Catharine  wheel ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Confusion  !  thieves !  robbers !  we 
are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone. 

Tony.  What ’s  the  matter,  what ’s  the  matter,  mam¬ 
ma  ?  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good 
family  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle .  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has 
been  broken  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I ’m  undone. 

Tony.  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Ha !  ha !  ha !  By  the  laws 
I  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod,  I  thought 
you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest. 
T\Iy  bureau  has  been  broken  open,  and  all  taken  away. 


SHE  STOOrS  TO  CONQUER. 


32) 


Tony .  Stick  to  that,  ha !  ha !  ha  !  stick  to  that.  1  ’il 
bear  witness,  you  know !  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that  !s 
precious,  the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  for 
over. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I  am  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. 
They  ’re  gone,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to 
laugh,  ha !  ha !  I  know  who  took  them  well  enough,  ha  1 
ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead, 
that  can ’t  tell  the  difference  between  jest  and  earnest !  I 
tell  you  I ’m  not  in  jest,  booby. 

Tony.  That ’s  right,  that ’s  right ;  you  must  be  in  a 
bitter  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either  of  us. 
I  ’ll  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grained 
brute,  that  won’t  hear  me !  Can  vou  bear  witness  that 
you’re  no  better  than  a  fool?  Was  ever  poor  woman  so 
beset  with  fools  on  one  hand,  and  thieves  on  the  other ! 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Bear  witness  again,  you  blockhead, 
you,  and  I  ’ll  turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly. 
poor  niece,  what  will  become  of  her?  Do  you  laugh, 
you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  my  distress  ? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster?  I’ll 
teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will ! 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that.  (He  rum  off,  sh 
follows  him.) 


522 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Enter  Miss  JIardcastle  and  Maid. 

Miss  Rardcastle.  What  an  unaccountable  creature  ii 
that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as  an  inn ; 
ha !  ha  !  I  do  n’t  wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gentle¬ 
man,  as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  asked  me 
if  you  were  the  bar-maid.  He  mistook  you  for  the  bar¬ 
maid,  madam  ! 

Miss  JIardcastle.  Did  he  ?  Then,  as  I  live,  I ’m  re¬ 
solved  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me,  Pimple,  how 
do  you  like  my  present  dress  ?  Do  n’t  you  think  I  look 
something  like  Cherry  in  the  Beaux’  Stratagem  ? 

Maid.  It ’s  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  wears 
in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  company. 

Miss  JIardcastle.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not  re¬ 
member  my  face  or  person  ? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it. 

Miss  JIardcastle.  1  vow  I  thought  so  ;  for  though  we 
spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were  such  that 
he  never  once  looked  up  during  the  interview.  Indeed, 
if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would  have  kept  him  from  seeing 
me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in 
his  mistake  ? 

Miss  JIardcastle.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen, 
and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings  her 
face  to  market.  Then  I  shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaint¬ 
ance,  and  that ’s  no  small  victory  gained  over  one  who 
never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  her  sex.  But 
my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman  off  his  guard,  and 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  525 

like  an  invisible  champion  of  romance,  examine  the  giant’s 
force  before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  ami 
disguise  your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he 
has  already  mistaken  your  person  ? 

Miss  Hard, castle.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have  got 
the  true  bar  cant — Did  your  honor  call? — Attend  the 
Lion  there. —  Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Angel. —  Tha 
Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour. 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.  But  he  ’s  here. 

[Exit  Maid . 

Enter  Marloio. 

Marlow.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house 
I  have  scarce  a  moment’s  repose.  If  I  go  to  the  best 
room,  there  I  find  my  host  and  his  story  ;  if  I  fiy  to  the 
gallery,  there  we  have  my  hostess  with  her  courtesy  down 
to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last  got  a  moment  to  myself, 
and  now  for  recollection.  [  Walks  and  muses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  you  call,  sir  ?  Did  your  honor 
call  ? 

Marlow.  (Musing.)  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she’s 
too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  your  honor  call  ? 

[aS7j6  still  places  herself  before  him , 
he  turning  away. 

Marlow.  No,  child.  ( Musing)  Besides,  from  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I ’m  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell 
ring. 

Marlow.  No,  no.  (Musing.)  I  have  pleased  my 


524 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


father,  however,  by  coming  down,  and  I  ’ll  to-morrow 
please  myself  by  returning.  ( Taking  out  his  tablets  and 
verusing.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman  called, 
sir? 

Marlow.  I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir :  we. 
have  such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  ( Looks  full  in  her  face) 
Yes,  child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I  wanted  —  I  wauted  —  3 
vow,  child,  you  are  vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  O  la,  sir,  you  ’ll  make  one  ashamed 

Marlow.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly,  malicious  eye. 
Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any  of 
your  —  a  —  what  d’  ye  call  it,  in  the  house  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that 
these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to  very 
little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just  by 
way  of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your  lips,  perhaps  I  might 
be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Nectar  1  nectar  !  That ’s  a  liquor 
there’s  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I  suppose. 
We  keep  no  French  wines  here,  sir. 

Marlow.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  it’s  odd  I  should  not  know  it. 
We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I  have 
lived  here  these  eighteen  years. 

Marlow.  Eighteen  years!  Why,  one  would  think, 
child,  you  kept  the  bar  before  you  were  born.  How  old 
are  you  * 


s 


snE  sTOors  to  conquer. 


325 


Mi  ss  Hardcastle.  Oh,  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age, 
They  say  women  and  music  should  never  be  dated. 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can’t  be  much 
above  forty.  ( Approaching )  Yet  nearer,  I  do  n’t  think 
so  much.  ( Approaching)  By  coming  close  to  some 
women,  they  look  younger  still ;  but  when  we  come  very 
dose  indeed  —  ( Attempting  to  kiss  her.) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance.  One 
would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one’s  age  as  they  do 
horses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ilL 
If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you 
and  I  can  ever  be  acquainted  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted 
with  you  ?  I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I ’m 
sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss  Hardcastle,  that  was  here 
a  while  ago,  in  this  obstropalous  manner.  I  ’ll  warrant 
me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept  bowing  to  the 
ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  you  were  be- 
fore  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

Marlow.  ( Aside )  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure  enough  1 
(  Tc  her )  In  awe  of  her,  child  ?  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  A  mere 
awkward,  squinting  thing  !  No,  no.  I  find  you  do  n’t 
know  me.  I  laughed  and  rallied  her  a  little ;  but  1  was 
unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  I  could  not  be  too  severe, 
curse  me ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Oh,  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favorite,  3 
find,  among  the  ladies  ? 

Marlow .  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favorite.  And  yet, 
hang  me,  1  do  n’t  see  what  theyr  find  in  me  to  follow.  At 
the  ladies’  club  in  town  I  ’m  called  their  agreeable  Rattle. 

28 


326 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Rattle,  child,  is  not  my  real  name,  but  one  I  ’m  know? 
by.  My  name  is  Solomons ;  Mr.  Solomons,  my  deal’,  at 
your  service.  (  Offering  to  salute  her.) 

Miss  Ilardcastle.  Hold,  sir,  you  are  introducing  me  to 
your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you  ’re  so  great  a  favor 
ite  there,  you  say  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There ’s  Mrs.  Mantrap,. 
Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs.  Lang- 
horns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  and  your  humble  serv¬ 
ant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hardcastle .  Then  it ’s  a  very  merry  place,  I 
suppose  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers,  wine,  and 
old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha !  ha ! 
ha! 

Marlow.  (Aside)  Egad  !  I  don’t  quite  like  this  chit. 
She  looks  knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh,  child? 

Miss  Hardcastle .  I  can’t  but  laugh  to  think  what  time 
they  all  have  for  minding  their  work,  or  their  family. 

Marlow.  (Aside)  All’s  well;  she  don’t  laugh  at  me. 
( To  her)  Do  you  ever  work,  child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Aye,  sure.  There’s  not  a  screen  or 
a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness  tc 
that. 

Marlow.  Odso !  then  you  must  show  me  your  em¬ 
broidery.  I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a  little-. 
If  you  want  a  judge  of  your  work,  you  must  apply  to 
me.  (  Seizing  her  hand. ) 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  the  colors  do  n’t  look  well 
by  candle-light-  You  shall  see  all  in  the  morning 

\  Struggling. ) 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


327 


Marlow.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Sucli  beauty 
fires  beyond  the  power  of  resistance.  Pshaw  !  the  fathel 
nere  !  My  old  luck  :  I  never  nicked  seven  that  I  did  not 
throw  ames  ace  three  times  following.* 

[Exit  Marlow 

Enter  Hardcastle ,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hardcastle.  So,  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  your  modest 
lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer,  that  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  and  only  adored  at  humble  distance. 
Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not  ashamed  to  deceive  your  father 
so  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but  he  ’s 
still  the  modest  man  I  first  tool:  him  for  ;  you  ’ll  be  con¬ 
vinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  hia 
impudence  is  infectious !  Did  n’t  I  see  him  seize  your 
hand?  Didn’t  I  see  him  hawl  you  about  like  a  milk¬ 
maid  ?  And  now  you  talk  of  his  respect  and  his  modesty, 
forsooth ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of  his 
modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults  that  wall  pass  off  with 
time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve  with  age,  I  hope 
you  ’ll  forgive  him. 

Hardcastle.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run 
mad!  I  tell  you  I’ll  no*  Is*  convinced.  Iam  convinced. 
He  has  scarcely  been  three  hours  in  the  house,  and  he 

*  Ames  ace,  or  ambs  aee,  is  two  aces  thrown  at  the  same  time 
on  two  dice.  As  seven  is  the  main,  to  throw  ames  ace  thrice  run¬ 
ning,  when  the  player  nicks,  that  is,  hazards  his  money  on  seven 
is  singularly  bad  luck. 


828 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


has  already  encroached  on  all  my  prerogatives.  Ton 
may  like  his  impudence,  and  call  it  modesty ;  but  my  son- 
in-law,  madam,  must  have  very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  convince 
you. 

Hardcastle.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  I 
have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Give  me  that  hour,  then,  and  I  hope 
t(  satisfy  you. 

Hardcastle .  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I’ll 
have  no  trifling  with  your  father.  All  fair  and  open,  do 
you  mind  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found  that 
I  considered  your  commands  as  my  pride ;  for  your  kind¬ 
ness  is  such,  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been  inclination. 

\ExeunL 


ACT  FOURTH. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me  :  Sir  Charles  Marlow  ez 
pected  here  this  night  1  Where  have  you  had  your  in 
formation  ? 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just  saw 
his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he  in¬ 
tends  setting  out  in  a  few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  complet¬ 
ed  before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me ;  and  should  hfl 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


329 


find  me  here,  would  discover  my  name,  and,  perhaps,  my 
designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe  ? 

Hastings.  Tes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow, 
Who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  mean  time, 
I  ’ll  go  to  prepare  matters  for  our  elopement.  I  have  had 
the  Squire’s  promise  of  a  fresh  pair  of  horses ;  and  if  3 
should  not  see  him  again,  will  write  him  further  direo 

tions-  [ Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  success  attend  you!  In  the  mean 
lime,  I  11  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pretence  of  8 
violent  passion  for  my  cousin.  [ Exit, 

Enter  Marlow ,  followed  by  a  Servant . 


Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by  send* 
ing  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for  him, 
when  he  Knows  the  only  place  I  have  is  the  seat  of  a  post* 
coach  at  an  inn-door.  Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with 
the  landlady,  as  I  ordered  you  ?  Have  you  put  it  into 
her  own  hands  ? 

Servant .  Yes,  your  honor. 

Marlow.  She  said  she ’d  keep  it  safe,  did  she  ? 

Servant.  Yes ;  she  said  she ’d  keep  it  safe  encugb. 
She  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it ;  and  she  said  she  had  a 
great  mind  to  make  me  give  an  account  of  myself. 

[Exit  Servant . 

Marlow.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  They  ’re  safe,  however. 
What  an  unaccountable  set  of  beings  have  we  got 
amongst !  This  little  bar-maid,  though,  runs  in  my  mind 
most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the  absurdities  of  all  the 

28* 


330 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


rest  of  the  family.  She  ’s  mine,  she  must  be  mine,  d 
1  ’m  greatly  mistaken. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings .  Bless  me  !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that  1 
intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Mar¬ 
low  here,  and  in  spirits  too  ! 

Marlow .  Give  me  joy,  George !  Crown  me,  shadow 
me  with  laurels :  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest 
fellows  don’t  want  for  success  among  the  women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what  suc¬ 
cess  has  your  honor’s  modesty  been  crowned  with  now, 
that  it  grows  so  insolent  upon  us  ? 

Marlow.  Did  n’t  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  lovely, 
little  thing,  that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch  of 
keys  to  its  girdle? 

Hastings.  Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Marlow.  She ’s  mine,  you  rogue  you.  Such  fire,  such 
motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips  —  but,  egad !  she  would  not 
let  me  kiss  them  though. 

Hastings.  But  are  you  so  sure,  so  very  sure  of 
her  ? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me  he? 
work  above  stairs,  and  I  am  to  approve  the  pattern. 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to  rob 
a  woman  of  her  honor  ? 

Marlow.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  We  all  know  the  honor  of 
the  bar-maid  of  an  inn.  I  don’t  intend  to  rob  her,  take 
my  word  for  it;  there’s  nothing  in  this  house  I  shan’t 
honestly  pay  for. 

Hastings.  I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


331 


Marlow  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man  in 
.he  world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the  casket 
i  sent  you  to  lock  up  ?  It ’s  in  safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes ;  it ’s  safe  enough.  I  have  taken 
ijare  of  it.  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a  post~ 
coach  at  an  inn-door  a  place  of  safety  ?  Ah  !  numscull ! 
I  have  taken  better  precautions  for  you  than  you  did  for 
yourself  —  I  have  — 

Hastings.  What  ? 

Marlow.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for 
you. 

Hastings.  To  the  landlady  I 

Marlow.  The  landlady. 

Hastings.  You  did  ? 

Marlow.  I  did.  She ’s  to  be  answerable  for  its  forth 
coming,  you  know. 

Hastings .  Yes,  she  ’ll  bring  it  forth  with  a  witness. 

Marlow.  Wasn’t  I  right?  I  believe  you’ll  allow 
that  I  acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion. 

Hastings.  ( Aside.)  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though,  me- 
thinks.  Sure  nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better  spirits 
in  all  my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady,  who, 
no  doubt,  very  readily  undertook  the  charge. 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily;  for  she  not  only  kept 
the  casket,  but,  through  her  great  precaution,  was  going 
to  keep  the  messenger  too.  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hastings,  He!  he!  he!  They ’re  safe,  however. 

Marlow.  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser’s  purse. 


832 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Hastings.  ( Aside.)  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  cuo 
at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off  without  it.  ( To  him) 
Well,  Charles,  I’ll  leave  you  to  your  meditations  on  the 
pretty  bar-maid,  and,  he !  he !  he !  may  you  be  as  suc¬ 
cessful  for  yourself  as  you  have  been  for  me ! 

[.Exit. 

Marlow.  Thank  ye,  George :  I  ask  no  more.  —  His ! 
ha!  ha ! 

4  Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It  *8 
turned  all  topsv-turvy.  His  servants  have  got  drunk  al¬ 
ready.  I  ’ll  bear  it  no  longer ;  and  yet,  from  my  respect 
for  his  father,  I  ’ll  be  calm.  (  To  him)  Mr.  Marlow,  youi 
servant.  I’m  your  very  humble  servant.  (Bowing 
low.) 

Marlene.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  ( Aside.)  What 
is  to  be  the  wonder  now  ? 

Hardcastle.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible,  sir 
that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than  your 
father’s  son,  sir.  I  hope  you  think  so  ? 

Marlow.  I  do  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don’t  want  much 
entreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father’s  son  welcome 
wherever  he  goes. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  But 
'.hough  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that  of  your 
servants  is  insufferable.  Their  manner  of  drinking  is 
setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this  house,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no  fault 
of  mine.  If  they  do  n’t  drink  as  they  ought,  they  are  tc 
frlame.  3  ordered  them  not  to  spare  the  cellar  T  did.  I 


BICE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER, 


833 


assure  you.  ( To  the  side-scene )  Here,  let  one  of  mv 
servants  come  up.  (To  him)  My  positive  directions 
were,  tbat  as  I  did  not  drink  myself,  they  should  make 
up  for  my  deficiencies  below. 

Hardcastle.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what  they 
do ?  I’m  satisfied  ! 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hear  it 
from  one  of  themselves. 


Enter  Servant ,  drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy  !  Come  forward,  sirrah  1  What 
were  my  orders?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink  freely, 
and  call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the 
h  mse  ? 

Hardcastle.  ( Aside.)  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honor,  liberty  and  Fleet-street 
forever!  Though  I’m  but  a  servant,  I’m  as  good  as 
another  man.  I  ’ll  drink  for  no  man  before  supper,  sir, 
damme !  Good  liquor  will  sit  upon  a  good  supper,  but  a 

good  supper  will  not  sit  upon - hiccup - upon  my 

conscience,  sir.  [ Exit. 

Marlow.  You  see  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as  drunk 
as  he  can  possibly  be.  I  do  n’t  know  what  you ’d  have 
more,  unless  you ’d  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in  a  beer 
barrel. 

Hardcastle.  Zounds,  he’ll  drive  me  distracted,  if  1 
contain  myself  any  longer  !  Mr.  Marlow :  sir,  I  have 
submitted  to  your  insolence  for  more  than  four  hours,  and 
X  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to  an  end.  I ’m  now  re¬ 
solved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that  you  and 
your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house  directly. 


334 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Marlow.  Leave  your  house !  —  Sure,  you  jest,  my 
good  friend  ?  What !  when  I  am  doing  what  I  cat  tc 
please  you. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  do  n’t  please  ;  so  I  do 
sire  you  will  leave  my  house. 

Mailow.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious?  at  this  time  o 
night,  and  such  a  night  ?  You  only  mean  to  banter  me. 

Hardcastle .  I  tell  you,  sir,  I ’m  serious !  and  now  that 
my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house  is  mine,  and  1 
command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I  shan’t 
stir  a  step,  I  assure  you.  ( In  a  serious  tone.)  This  your 
house,  fellow !  It ’s  my  house.  This  is  my  house.  Mine 
while  I  choose  to  stay.  What  right  have  you  to  bid  me 
leave  this  house,  sir  ?  I  never  met  with  such  impudence, 
curse  me;  never  in  my  whole  life  before. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did!  To 
come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  mo 
out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult  the  family,  to  order  his 
servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me,  “  This  house 
is  mine,  sir !  ”  By  all  that  ’s  impudent,  it  makes  me 
laugh.  Ha  !  ha !  ha  !  Pray,  sir,  ( banteriruj )  as  you 
take  the  house,  what  think  you  of  taking  the  rest  of  the 
furniture?  There’s  a  pair  of  silver  candle-sticks,  and 
there ’s  a  fire-screen,  and  here’s  a  pair  of  brazen-nosed 
bellows ;  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy  to  them  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir ;  bring  me  your  bill 
and  let ’s  make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hardcastle.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What 
think  you  of  the  Rake’s  Progress  for  your  own  apart 
nent  ? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  335 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say,  and  I’ll  leave 
you  and  your  infernal  house  directly. 

Hm  dcastlc.  Then  there’s  a  mahogany  table  that  you 
may  see  your  face  in. 

Marlow.  My  bill,  I  say. 

Hardcastle.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your  own 
particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds  !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and  let’s 
hear  no  more  on ’t. 

Hardcastle.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your  father’s 
letter  to  me,  J  was  taught  to  expect  a  well-bred,  modest 
man  as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  I  find  him  no  better  than 
a  coxcomb  and  a  bully !  but  he  will  be  down  here  present¬ 
ly,  and  shall  hear  more  of  it.  [Exit. 

Marlow.  How ’s  this !  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken  the 
house.  Everything  looks  like  an  inn ;  the  servants  cry 
coming ;  the  attendance  is  awkward ;  the  bar-maid,  too, 
to  attend  us.  But  she ’s  here,  and  will  further  inform 
me.  Whither  so  fast,  child  ?  A  word  with  you. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Miss  Hardcastle .  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I’m  in  a 
hurry.  (Aside)  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his  mis¬ 
take.  But  it ’s  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive  him. 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question.  What 
are  you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this  house  be  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marlow.  What,  a  poor  relation  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  a  poor  relation,  appointed 
to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want  nothing 
in  my  power  to  give  them. 


336 


SHE  STOOI'S  TO  CONQUER. 


Marlow .  That  is,  you  act  as  the  bar-maid  of  this  inn 

Miss  Hardcastle .  Inn!  O  la - what  brought  tha! 

into  your  head  ?  One  of  the  best  families  in  the  county 
keep  an  inn !  —  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  old  Mr.  Hardcastle’s  house 
an  inn ! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle’s  house  !  Is  this  Mr.  Hard¬ 
ens  tie’s  house,  child  ? 

i 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  sure.  Whose  else  should  it  be  ? 

Marlow.  So  then,  all ’s  out,  and  I  have  been  damna¬ 
bly  imposed  upon.  Oh,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I  shall 
be  laughed  at  over  the  whole  town  !  I  shall  be  stuck  up 
in  caricature  in  all  the  print-shops.  The  Dullissimo* 
Maccaroni.  To  mistake  this  house  of  all  others  for  an 
inn,  and  my  father’s  old  friend  for  an  inn-keeper  !  What 
a  swaggering  puppy  must  he  take  me  for  !  What  a  silly 
puppy  do  I  find  myself!  There,  again,  may  I  be  hanged, 
my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you  for  the  bar-maid. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Dear  me !  dear  me !  I’m  sure 
there ’s  nothing  in  my  behavior  to  put  me  upon  a  level 
with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in 
for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you  a 
subscriber.  My  stupidity  saw  everything  the  wrong  way. 
I  mistook  your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and  your  sim- 
plicty  for  allurement.  But  it’s  over  —  this  house  I  no 
more  show  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing  to 
disoblige  you.  I ’m  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront  any 
gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite,  and  said  so  many  civil 
things  to  me.  I ’m  sure  I  should  be  sorry  (pretending  to 
cry)  if  he  left  the  family  on  my  account.  I’m  sure  1 


s 


— 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  38? 

■should  be  sorry  people  said  anything  amiss,  since  X  have 
no  fortune  but  my  character. 

Marlow.  ( Aside)  By  Heaven !  she  weeps.  This  is 
the  first  mark  of  tenderness  X  ever  had  from  a  modest 
woman,  and  it  touches  me.  ( To  her.)  Excuse  me,  my 
lovely  girl ;  you  are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I  leave 
with  reluctance.  But,  to  be  plain  with  you,  the  difference 
of  our  birth,  fortune,  and  education,  make  an  honorable 
connection  impossible  ;  and  I  can  never  harbor  a  thought 
of  seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in  my  honor,  of  bring¬ 
ing  ruin  upon  one  whose  only  fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  ( Aside.)  Generous  man !  X  now 
begin  to  admire  him.  ( To  him.)  But  I  am  sure  my 
family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle’s  ;  and  though  X  ’m 
poor,  that ’s  no  great  misfortune  to  a  contented  mind ;  and 
until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it  was  bad  to 
want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance 
from  one,  that  if  X  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would  give 
it  all  to. 

Marlow.  ( Aside.)  This  simplicity  bewitches  me  so, 
that  if  I  stay,  X ’m  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold  effort 
and  leave  her.  ( To  her.)  Your  partiality  in  my  favor 
my  dear,  touches  me  most  sensibly  ;  and  were  X  to  live 
for  myself  alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my  choice.  But  I 
owe  too  much  to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too  much  to  the 
authority  of  a  father ;  so  that  —  X  can  speak  it  —  it  af¬ 
fects  me  —  Farewell.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  X  never  knew  half  his  merit  till  now, 
He  shall  not  go  if  X  have  power  or  art  to  detain  him.  I’ll 

29 


338 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


still  preserve  the  character  in  which  I  stooped  to  conquer 
but  will  undeceive  my  papa,  who,  perhaps,  may  laugh 
him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit, 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville. 

Tiny.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next 
time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels 
again,  that ’s  a  sure  thing ;  but  she  believes  it  was  all  a 
mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Neville.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won’t  for¬ 
sake  us  in  this  distress  ?  If  she  in  the  least  suspects  that 
I  am  going  off,  I  shall  certainly  be  locked  up,  or  sent  to 
my  aunt  Pedigree’s,  which  is  ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damned  bad 
things.  But  what  can  I  do?  I  have  got  you  a  pair  of 
horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistle  Jacket ;  and  I ’m  sure 
you  can’t  say  but  I  have  courted  you  nicely  before  her 
face.  Here  she  comes ;  we  must  court  a  bit  or  two  more, 
for  fear  she  should  suspect  us. 

[  They  retire ,  and  seem  to  fondle. 

Enter  Mrs.  Iiardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered,  to  be 
mre,  but  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  ser¬ 
vants.  I  shan’t  be  easy,  however,  till  they  are  fairly  mar¬ 
ried,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune.  But  what 
do  I  see  ?  fondling  together,  as  I ’m  alive.  I  never  saw 
Tony  so  sprightly  before.  Ah !  have  I  caught  you,  my 
pretty  doves  ?  What,  billing,  exchanging  glances  and 
oroken  murmurs  ?  Ah  ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little 


339 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


now  and  then,  to  be  sure;  but  there ’s  no  love  lost  be 
tween  us. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon  the 
ilame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  us  to  give  us 
more  of  his  company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shant  leave  us 
any  more.  It  won’t  leave  us,  cousin  Tony,  will  it  ? 

Tony.  Oh,  it’s  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I ’d  sooner 
leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you 
smile  upon  one  so.  Your  laugh  makes  you  so  becom* 
ing. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin  !  Who  can  help  ad¬ 
miring  that  natural  humor,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red 
thoughtless,  (patting  his  cheelc,)  ah  !  it’s  a  bold  face ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pretty  innocence ! 

Tony.  I’m  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con’s  hazel 
eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this 
way  and  that  over  haspicholls,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah  !  he  would  charm  the  bird  from 
the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My  boy  takes 
after  his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly.  The  jewels, 
my  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently.  You  shall 
have  them.  Is  n’t  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear  ?  You  shall 
be  married  to-morrow,  and  we  ’ll  put  off  the  rest  of  his 
education,  like  Dr.  Drowsy’s  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportu¬ 
nity. 

Enter  Diggory. 

THggory.  Where ’s  the  Squire?  I  have  got  a  letter 
for  your  worship. 


MO 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my  let¬ 
ters  first. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  ov.  r: 

hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o’  the  letter 

itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know  though.  ( Turning  the 
Utter ,  and  gazing  on  it.) 

Miss  Neville.  ( Aside )  Undone  !  undone !  A  letter  to 
him  from  Hastings :  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt  sees 
it,  we  are  ruined  forever.  I  ’ll  keep  her  employed  a  lit¬ 
tle,  if  I  can.  ( To  Mrs.  Hardcastle )  But  I  have  not  told 
you,  madam,  of  my  cousin’s  smart  answer  just  now  to  Mr. 
Marlow.  We  so  laughed  —  You  must  know,  madam  — 
This  way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us.  ( They  con- 
for.) 

Tony.  ( Still  gazing )  A  damned  cramp  piece  of  pen¬ 
manship,  as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read  your 
print-hand  very  well ;  but  here  there  are  such  handles, 
and  shanks,  and  dashes,  that  one  can  scarce  tell  the  head 
from  the  tail.  “  To  Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire.”  It ’s 
very  odd,  I  can  read  the  outside  of  my  letters,  where  my 
own  name  is,  well  enough.  But  when  I  come  to  open  it, 
it ’s  all - buzz.  That ’s  hard  —  very  hard  ;  for  the  in¬ 

side  of  the  letter  *'g  always  the  cream  of  the  corres¬ 
pondence. 

Mrs .  Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Very  well,  very  well 
And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam ;  but  you  must  bear  the 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


341 


rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear  us 
You  ’ll  hear  how  he  puzzled  him  again. 

M,  i.  Hardvastle.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now  him 
self,  lethinks. 

A  ~iy,  ( Still  gazing)  A  damned  up-and-down  hand, 
as  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  ( Reading )  “  Dear  Sir,” 
>—  Ay,  that’s  that.  Then  there ’s  an  M,  and  a  T,  and  an 
S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an  izzard  or  an  R,  confound 
me  I  cannot  tell ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  What’s  that,  my  dear ;  can  I  give 
you  any  assistance  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  Nobody 
reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  I.  ( Twitching  the  letter 
from  him)  Do  you  know  who  it  is  from  ? 

Tony.  Can’t  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger,  the  feeder. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is :  (pretending  to  read )  Dear 
Squire,  hoping  that  you’re  in  health,  as  I  am  at  this  pres¬ 
ent.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake  Bag  Club  has  cut  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Goose  Green  quite  out  of  feather.  The 

odds - um  — —  odd  battle  —  um  —  long  —  fighting  — 

um  —  here,  here,  it ’s  all  about  cocks  and  fighting ;  it ’s 
of  no  consequence  —  here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up.  Thrust- 
mg  the  crumpled  letter  upon  him.) 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it’s  of  all  the  consequenoe 
in  the  world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it  for  a  guinea 
Mere,  mother,  do  you  make  it  out.  Of  no  consequence  ! 

[  Giving  Mrs.  Hardcastle  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  How ’s  this  !  (Reads.)  “  Dear  Squire 
I’m  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  postchaise  and 
pair,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses 
yet  unable  to  perform  the  journey.  I  expect  you  ’ll  as* 

29*  * 


34 2 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


sist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  promised.  Do 
6patch  is  necessary  as  the  hag  ”  —  ay,  the  hag  —  “  your 
mother  will  otherwise  suspect  us.  lours,  Hastings." 
Grant  me,  patience :  I  shall  run  distracted !  My  rage 

chokes  me ! 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you  ’ll  suspend  your  re 
sentment  for  a  few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me  auj 
impertinence,  or  sinister  design,  that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hcirdcastle.  (  Courtesying  very  low )  Fine  spoken 
madam,  you  are  most  miraculously  polite  and  engaging, 
and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and  circumspection, 
madam.  ( Changing  her  tone )  And  you,  you  great  ill- 
fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough  to  keep  your 
mouth  shut,  —  were  you,  too,  joined  against  me?  But 
I  ’ll  defeat  all  your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you, 
madam,  since  you  have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it 
would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  them.  So,  if  you  please,  in¬ 
stead  of  running  away  with  your  spark,  prepare  this  very 
moment,  to  run  off  with  me.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree 
will  keep  you  secure,  I  ’ll  warrant  me.  You  too,  sir,  may 
mount  your  horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way.  —  Here, 
Thomas,  Roger,  Diggory !  —  I  ’ll  show  you,  that  I  wish 
you  better  than  you  do  yourselves.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  So,  now  I ’m  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that ’s  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Neville.  What  better  could  be  expected,  from 
being  connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all  the 
nods  and  signs  I  made  him  ? 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  cleverness, 
and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business !  You  were 
so  nice  and  so  busy  with  your  Shake  Bags  and  Gooss 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Greens,  that  I  thought  you  could  never  be  making  be* 

have. 

Enter  Hastings . 

Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant,  that  you  have 
shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this  well  done, 
young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  Here’s  another,  Ask  miss,  there,  who  be¬ 
trayed  you.  Ecod  !  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  So,  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among  you. 
Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill-manners,  despised, 
insulted,  laughed  at. 

Tony.  Here ’s  another.  We  shall  have  all  Bedlam 
broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman  to  whom 
we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him  ?  a  mere  boy,  an 
idiot,  whose  ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hastings.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that  would  but 
disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough  to 
make  himself  merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

Hastings.  An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Raw  !  damme,  but  I  ’ll  fight  you  both,  one 
after  the  other- - with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he ’s  below  resentment.  But 
yow'  conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation 
\rou  knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would  not  undeceive  me. 


S44 


SUE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEK. 


Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disappoint 
ments,  is  this  a  time  for  explanations  ?  It  is  not  friendly 
Mr.  Marlow. 

Marlow.  But,  sir - 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  youi 
mistake,  till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you.  Be 
pacified. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you  ’ll  get  ready  imme¬ 
diately,  madam.  The  horses  are  putting-to.  Your  hat 
and  things  are  in  the  next  room.  We  are  to  go  thirty 
miles  before  morning. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Newlle.  Well,  well,  I’ll  come  presently. 

Marlow.  ( To  Hastings.)  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  to  as¬ 
sist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous  ?  —  To  hang  me  out  for 
the  scorn  of  all  my  acquaintance  ?  Depend  upon  it,  sir 
I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you’re  upon  that 
subject,  to  deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself,  to  the  care 
of  another,  sir  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Hastings  !  Mr.  Marlow !  Why  will 
you  increase  my  distress  by  this  groundless  dispute  ?  J 
implore  —  I  entreat  you  — — 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.  My  mistress  is  imptv- 
fjent.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  I  come.  Pray,  be  pacified.  If  1 1*  ave 
you  thu3,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension 


8HE  STOOP8  TO  CONQUER. 


345 


Enter  Servant. 

Servant  Your  fan,  muff’  and  gloves,  madam.  Th® 
horses  are  waiting.  [Exit  Servant 

Miss  Neville.  Oh,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  you  knew  what  a 
scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  I  am 
sure  it  would  convert  your  resentment  into  pity ! 

Marlow.  I ’m  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions 
that  I  don’t  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me,  madam. 
George,  forgive  me.  You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and 
should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hastings .  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only  ex¬ 
cuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have 
that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think  —  that  I  am  sure  you 
have,  your  constancy  for  three  years  will  but  increase 
the  happiness  of  our  future  connection.  If - 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  (  Within.)  Miss  Neville  !  Constance, 
why,  Constance,  I  say  ! 

Miss  Neville.  I’m  coming!  Well,  constancy,  remem 
her,  constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit 

Hastings.  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this  ?  To 
be  sc  near  happiness,  and  such  happiness  ! 

Marlow.  ( To  Tony.)  You  see  now,  young  gentle¬ 
man,  the  effects  of  your  folly.  What  might  be  amuse¬ 
ment  to  you,  is  here  disappointment,  and  even  distress. 

Tony.  ( From,  a  reverie.)  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it :  it ’s 
here!  Your  hands.  Yours,  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky. 
My  boots  there,  ho!  —  Meet  me,  two  hours  hence,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden ;  and  if  you  don’t  find  Tony  Lump¬ 
kin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than  you  thought  for,  I  ’ll 


346 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEIi. 


give  you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet  Bouncer 
into  the  bargain.  Come  along.  My  boots,  ho  ! 

[Exeunt . 


ACT  FIFTH. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Servant. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville 
drive  off,  you  say  ? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honor.  They  went  off  in  a  post- 
coach,  and  the  young  Squire  went  on  horseback.  They  ’re 
thirty  miles  off  by  this  time. 

Hastings.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over ! 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived.  He 
and  the  old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been  laughing 
at  Mr.  Marlow’s  mistake  this  half  hour.  They  are  com¬ 
ing  this  way.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now  to  my 
fruitless  appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  This 
is  about  the  time.  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  peremptory  tone  in 
which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  commands ! 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose 
he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something  ic 
me  above  a  common  innkeeper,  too. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


347 


Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  an  un 
common  innkeeper  ;  ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I ’m  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of 
anything-  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of  om 
families  will  make  our  personal  friendships  hereditary, 
and  though  my  daughter’s  fortune  is  but  small - 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune  to 
me  ?  My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence  al¬ 
ready,  and  can  want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  gir 
to  share  his  happiness  and  increase  it.  If  they  like  each 
other,  as  you  say  they  do - 

Hardcastle.  If,  man !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each  oth¬ 
er.  My  daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves, 
you  know. 

Hardcastle.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest 
manner,  myself;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of 
your  ifs,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Marlow . 

Marlow  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon  for  my 
strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on  my  insolence 
without  confusion. 

Hardcastle.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too  grave¬ 
ly.  An  hour  or  two’s  laughing  with  my  daughter,  will 
set  all  to  rights  again.  She  ’ll  never  like  you  the  worse 
for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  approbation. 

Hardcastle.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr.  Mar¬ 
low  ;  if  1  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something  more  time 
approbation  thereabouts.  You  take  me  1 


348 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Marlow.  Really,  sir,  I  ’ve  not  that  happiness. 
Hardcastle.  Come,  boy,  I ’m  an  old  fellow,  and  know 
what ’s  what  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger.  I  know 
what  has  past  between  you  ;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  past  between  us,  but 
the  most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most  dis¬ 
tant  reserve  on  hers.  You  don’t  think,  sir,  that  my  impu¬ 
dence  has  been  past  upon  all  the  rest  of  the  family ! 

Hardcastle.  Impudence  !  No,  I  don’t  say  that  —  not 
quite  impudence  —  though  girls  like  to  be  played  with, 
and  rumpled  a  little  too,  sometimes.  But  she  has  told  no 
tales,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 
Hardcastle.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place 
well  enough  ;  but  this  is  over-acting,  young  gentleman, 
You  may  be  open.  Your  father  and  I  will  like  you  the 
better  for  it. 

Marlow.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever - 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  she  don’t  dislike  you ;  and  as  1 

am  sure  you  like  her - 

Marlow.  Dear  sir,  I  protest,  sir - 

Hardcastle.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be 
joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlow.  But  hear  me,  sir - 

Hardcastle.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  admire 
it ;  every  moment’s  delay  will  be  doing  mischief,  so  -  -• 
Marlow.  But  why  don’t  you  hear  me  F  .By  all  that *s 
just  and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slightest 
mark  ol  my  attachment,  or  even  the  most  distant  hint  to 
suspect  me  of  affection.  We  had  but  one  interview,  and 
that  was  formal,  modest,  and  uninteresting. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


349 


Hardcastle.  (Aside.)  This  fellow’s  formal,  modest 
Impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand,  01 
made  any  protestations  ? 

Marlow.  As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down  in 
obedience  to  your  commands ;  I  saw  the  lady  without 
emotion,  and  parted  without  reluctance.  I  hope  you  ’ll 
exact  no  farther  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent  me  from 
leaving  a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so  many  mortifications. 

[Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I ’m  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity 
with  which  he  parted. 

Hardcastle.  And  I ’m  astonished  at  the  deliberate  in¬ 
trepidity  of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honor  upon 
his  truth. 

Hardcastle.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would 
stake  my  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle . 

Hardcastle.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us 
sincerely,  and  without  reserve :  has  Mr.  Marlow  made 
you  any  professions  of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir 
But  since  you  require  unreserved  sincerity  —  I  think  he 
has. 

Hardcastle.  ( To  Sir  Charles )  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my  son 
had  more  than  one  interview  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hardcastle.  (To  Sir  Charles)  You  see. 

30 


350 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Sir  Charles .  But  did  he  profess  any  attachment? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Charles.  Did  he  talk  of  love  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Charles.  Amazing !  And  all  this  formally  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Formally. 

Hardcastle.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied 

Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  As  most  professed  admirers  do  < 
said  some  civil  things  of  my  face ;  talked  much  of  his 
want  of  merit,  and  the  greatness  of  mine ;  mentioned  hia 
heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with  pre¬ 
tended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I ’m  perfectly  convinced,  indeed.  I 
know  his  conversation  among  women  to  be  modest  and 
submissive.  This  forward,  canting,  ranting  manner  by 
no  means  describes  him,  and,  I  am  confident,  he  never 
sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  convince 
you  to  your  face  of  my  sincerity  ?  If  you  and  my  papa, 
in  about  half  an  hour,  will  place  yourselves  behind  that 
s'creen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare  his  passion  to  me  in 
person. 

Sir  Charles.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you 

•I ascribe,  all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  you  do  n’t  find  him  what  I 
describe,  1  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a  be 
ginning. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


35i 


BOBHB  CHANGES  TO  THE  BACK  OF  THE  GARDEN- 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I  to  wait  here  for  a  fel 
'ow  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me.  lie 
never  intended  to  be  punctual,  and  I  ’ll  wait  no  longer. 
What  do  I  see  ?  It  is  he  I  and  perhaps  with  news  of  my 
Constance. 


Enter  Tony ,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hastings.  My  honest  Squire !  I  now  find  you  a  man 
of  your  word.  This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I ’m  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  you 
have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding  by 
night,  by  the  by,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook  me 
worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hastings.  But  how  ?  where  did  you  leave  your  fel¬ 
low-travellers  ?  Are  they  in  safety  ?  Are  they  housed  ? 

Tony.  Five-and-twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a  half 
is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have  smoked 
for  it :  rabbit  me  !  but  I ’d  rather  ride  forty  miles  after  a 
fox,  than  ten  with  such  varmint. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies  r 
I  die  with  impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them  !  Why,  wrhere  should  I  leave  them 
but  where  I  found  them  ? 

Hastings.  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What’s  that  goes  round 
the  house,  and  round  the  house,  and  never  touclies  the 
house  ? 


852 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Hastings.  I  ’ra  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that ’s  it,  mun.  I  have  led  them  astra> 
By  jingo,  there ’s  not  a  pond  or  a  slough  within  five  miles 
of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha  !  ha !  ha  !  I  understand :  you  took 
them  in  a  round  while  they  supposed  themselves  going 
forward,  and  so  you  have  at  last  brought  them  home  again. 

Tony.  Lou  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather-bed  Lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud.  I 
then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and-down 
Hill.  I  then  introduced  them  to  the  gibbet  on  Heavy- 
tree  Heath ;  and  from  that,  with  a  circumbendibus,  I 
fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden. 

Hastings.  But  no  accident,  I  hope  ? 

Tony.  No,  no :  only  mother  is  confoundedly  fright 
eried.  She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.  She ’s  sick  of 
the  journey ;  and  the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl.  So,  it 
your  own  horses  be  ready,  you  may  whip  off  with  cousin, 
and  I  11  be  bound  that  no  soul  here  can  budge  a  foot  to 
follow  you. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful  ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it ’s  dear  friend  ;  noble  Squire  !  Just 
now,  it  was  all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through  the  guts. 
Damn  your  way  of  fighting,  I  say.  After  we  take  a 
knock  in  this  part  of  the  country,  we  kiss  and  be  friends. 
But  if  you  had  run  me  through  the  guts,  then  I  should 
he  dead,  and  you  might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must  hasten  to 
relieve  Miss  Iseville:  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed, 

I  promise  to  take  care  o(  the  young  one.  {  Exit  Hastings 


\ 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER, 


355 


Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes ;  vanish 
She ’s  got  from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist 
like  a  mermaid. 


Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Oh,  Tony,  I’m  killed.  Shook! 
Battered  to  death !  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That  last 
jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the  quickset-hedge,  has  done  my 
business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma !  it  was  all  your  own  fault. 
Tou  would  be  for  running  away  by  night,  without  know¬ 
ing  one  inch  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I 
never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey. 
Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast  in 
a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose  our  way  1 
Whereabouts  do  you  think  we  are,  Tony  ? 

Tony.  By  my  guess,  we  should  be  upon  Crack-skull 
Common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O  lud !  O  lud  !  The  most  notori¬ 
ous  spot  in  all  the  country.  We  only  want  a  robbery  to 
make  a  complete  night  on ’t. 

Tony.  Do  n’t  be  afraid,  mamma ;  do  n’t  be  afraid.  Two 
of  the  five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the  other  three 
may  not  find  us.  Do  n’t  be  afraid.  —  Is  that  a  man  that’s 
galloping  behind  us.  No,  it ’s  only  a  tree.  —  Do  n’t  be 
afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  anything  like  a  black  hat  moving 
behind  the  thicket  ? 

Mrs  Hardcastle.  Ob,  death  ! 

30* 


354  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 

Tony.  No  ;  it’s  only  a  cow.  Don’t  be  afraid,  mamma 

don’t  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  As  I’m  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man 
coming  towards  us.  Ah !  I  am  sure  on’t.  If  he  per 
ceives  us,  we  are  undone. 

Tony.  [Aside.)  Father-in-law,  by  all  that’s  unlucky 
come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  (  To  her.)  Ah 
it’s  a  highwayman,  with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.  A 
damn’d  ill-looking  fellow ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Good  Heaven,  defend  us !  He  ap¬ 
proaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and  leave 
me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger,  I’ll  cough 
and  cry  hem.  When  I  cough,  be  sure  to  keep  close. 

[Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a  tree  in  the  back  scene. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle.  I ’m  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  people 
in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  ?  I  did  not  ex¬ 
pect  you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mother  and  her  charge 
in  safety  ? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree’s.  Hem.  * 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  ( From  behind )  Ah,  death  !  I  find 
Li  i  ere ’s  danger. 

Hardcastle.  Forty  miles  ir.  three  hours  ;  sure  tliat  *s 
tfK)  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make  short 
journeys,  as  they  say.  Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  ( From  behind )  Sure,  he  ’ll  do  the 

dear  boy  no  harm. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  35A 

% 

ffardeastle.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here ;  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was 
saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good  going. 
Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got  a  soil 
of  cold  by  being  out  in  the  air.  We  ’ll  go  in,  if  you  please. 
Hem. 

Hardcastle.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did  not 
answer  yourself.  I ’m  certain  I  heard  two  voices,  and 
am  resolved  ( raising  his  voice )  to  find  the  other  out. 

Mrs.  ffardeastle.  ( From  behind )  Oh  !  he  s  coming 

to  find  me  out.  Oh  ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  ?  Hem. 
I  ’ll  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth  —  hem  — I  ’ll  tell  you 
a]l,  sir.  [. Detaining  him. 

ffardeastle.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I  insist 
on  seeing.  It ’s  in  vain  to  expect  I  ’ll  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  ( Running  forward  from  behind )  0 
lud !  he  ’ll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling  !  Here,  good 
gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my  money, 
my  life,  but  spare  that  young  gentleman ;  spare  my  child 
if  you  have  any  mercy. 

Hardcastle.  My  wife,  as  I  ’m  a  Christian.  From 
whence  can  she  have  come  ?  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  ffardeastle.  (Kneeling)  Take  compassion  or; 
us,  good  Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  our  watch¬ 
es,  all  we  have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We  will  never  bring 
you  to  justice  ;  indeed  we  won’t,  good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

ffardeastle.  I  believe  the  woman ’s  out  of  her  senses. 
What,  Dorothy,  ion’t  you  know  me  ? 

Mrs.  ffardeastle  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I ’m  alive  1  My 


356 


8HE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


fears  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have  expect 
ed  to  meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful  place,  so  far  from 
home  ?  What  has  brought  you  to  follow  us  ? 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your 
wits  ?  So  far  from  home,  wrhen  you  are  within  forty 
yards  of  your  own  door !  ( To  him )  This  is  one  of 

vour  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue,  you.  ( To  her  J 
Don’t  you  know  the  gate  and  the  mulberry  tree  ?  and 
don’t  you  remember  the  horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse- 
pond  as  long  as  I  live ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it. 
(  To  Tony )  And  is  it  to  you,  you  graceless  varlet,  I  owe 
all  this?  I  ’ll  teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother  —  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have 
spoiled  me,  and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on’t. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  ’ll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage . 

Hardcastle.  There ’s  morality,  howrever,  in  his  reply. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  delibe¬ 
rate  thus  ?  If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  forever 
Pluck  up  a  little  resolution,  and  we  shall  soon  be  out  of 
the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are  so 
sunk  with  the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am  una¬ 
ble  to  face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three  years’  pa¬ 
tience  will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  incon¬ 
stancy.  Let  us  fly,  my  charmer !  Let  us  date  our  hap- 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


357 


piness  from  this  very  moment.  Perish  fortune!  Love 
and  content  will  increase  what  we  possess  beyond  a  mom 
arch’s  revenue.  Let  me  prevail ! 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.  Prudence  once 
more  comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates.  In 
the  moment  of  passion,  fortune  may  be  despised,  but  it  ev¬ 
er  produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I ’m  resolved  to  apply 
to  Mr.  Ilardcastle’s  compassion  and  justice  for  redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has  not  the 
power,  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that  1 
am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But,  since  you  persist,  1 
must  reluctantly  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  CHANGES. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in  !  If  what  you 
say  appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If  what  he 
says  be  true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of  all  others,  I 
most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation; 
and  to  show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I  direct¬ 
ed,  you  shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.  But  he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I  ’ll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to  the 
appointment.  [Exit  Sir  Charles, 

Enter  Marlow . 

Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come  once 
more  to  take  leave ;  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know  the 
pain  1  feel  in  the  separation. 


358 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Miss  flat  dcastle.  C In  her  own  natural  manner )  ) 

\  * 

believe  these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir,  which 
you  can  so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps, 
might  lessen  your  uneasiness,  by  showing  the  little  value 
of  what  you  new  think  proper  to  regret. 

Marlow.  (Aside )  This  girl  every  moment  improves 
upon  me.  ( To  her )  It  must  not  be,  madam ;  I  have 
already  trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My  very  pride 
begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The  disparity  of  educa¬ 
tion  and  fortune,  the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the  contempt 
of  my  equals,  begin  to  lose  their  weight ;  and  nothing  tan 
restore  me  to  myself  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  go,  sir ;  I  ’ll  urge  nothing 
more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good  as 
hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I  hope, 
not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages  without  equal  af¬ 
fluence  ?  I  must  remain  contented  with  the  slight  ap¬ 
probation  of  imputed  merit;  I  must  have  only  the 
mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims 
are  fixed  on  fortune. 

Enter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  from  behind. 

Sir  Charles.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  ay  ;  make  no  noise.  I  ’ll  engage  my 
Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  Heavens !  madam,  fortune  was  ever  my 
smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught  my 
eye  ;  for  who  could  see  that  without  emotion?  But  ev¬ 
ery  moment  that  I  converse  with  you,  steals  in  some  new 
grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and  gives  it  stronger  expres¬ 
sion.  What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plainness,  now  appeari 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


359 


refined  simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  assurance,  now 
strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous  innocence  and 
conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean  ?  He  amazes  me ! 

Hardcastle.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  Hush  ! 

Marlow.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and 
1  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father’s  discernment, 
when  he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  cannot 
detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connection  in 
which  there  is  the  smallest  room  for  repentance?  Do 
you  think  I  would  take  the  mean  advantage  of  a  transient 
passion  to  load  you  with  confusion  ?  Do  you  think  I 
could  ever  relish  that  happiness  which  was  acquired  by 
lessening  yours  ? 

Marlow.  By  all  that’s  good,  I  can  have  no  happiness 
but  what’s  in  your  power  to  grant  me  !  Nor  shall  I  ever 
/eel  repentance  but  in  not  having  seen  your  merits  be¬ 
fore.  I  will  stay  even  contrary  to  your  wishes ;  and 
'.hough  you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I  will  make  my 
respectful  assiduities  atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past  con* 
duct. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you  ’ll  desist.  As 
our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indifference.  I 
might  have  given  an  hour  or  two  to  levity;  but  seriously, 
Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever  submit  to  a  con¬ 
nection  where  I  must  appear  mercenary,  and  you  impru¬ 
dent  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  confident 
addresses  of  a  secure  admirer. 

Marlow.  ( Kneeling.)  Does  this  look  like  securty  \ 
Does  this  look  like  confidence  ?  No,  madam,  every  mo- 


SOP 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEK 


meiit  that  shows  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  ir crease 
my  diffidence  and  confusion.  Here  let  me  continue - - 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles, 
Charles,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me !  Is  this  your  indif¬ 
ference,  your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hardeastle.  \  our  cold  contempt ;  your  formal  inter¬ 
view  !  What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Marlow.  That  I ’m  all  amazement !  What  can  it 
mean  ? 

Hardeastle.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay 
things  at  pleasure  :  that  you  can  address  a  lady  in  private, 
and  deny  it  in  public :  that  you  have  one  story  for  us, 
and  another  for  my  daughter. 

Marlow.  Daughter !  —  This  lady  your  daughter  ? 

Hardeastle.  \  es,  sir,  my  only  daughter  —  my  Kate  ; 
whose  else  should  she  be? 

Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil  1 

Miss  Hardeastle.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall, 
squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for  (< courtesy 
ing  ;)  she  that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  modest,  senti 
mental  man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold,  forward,  agreeable 
Rattle  of  the  ladies’  club.  Ha !  ha  !  ha ! 

Marlow.  Zounds,  there ’s  no  bearing  this ;  it ’s  worse 
than  death! 

Miss  Hardeastle.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir, 
will  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  faltering 
gentleman,  which  looks  on  the  ground,  that  speaks  just 
to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy ;  or  the  loud,  confident 
creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap,  and  old 
Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in  the  morning  5  —  Ha 
ha  1  ha  I 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


36f 


Marlow .  Oh,  curse  on  my  noisy  head !  I  never  at 
iempted  to  be  impudent  yet  that  I  was  not  taken  down . 
T  must  be  gone. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall 
not.  I  see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to  find 
it.  You  shall  not  stir,  I  tell  you.  I  know  she  ’ll  forgive 
you.  Won’t  you  forgive  him,  Kate  ?  We  ’ll  all  forgive 
you.  Take  courage,  man. 

[  They  retire ,  she  tormenting  him  to  the  back  scene . 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Tony. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  So,  so,  they  ’re  gone  off.  Let  them 
go,  I  care  not. 

Hardcastle.  Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman, 
Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came  down  with  our 
modest  visitor  here. 

Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings  ?  As 
worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have  made 
a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I ’m  proud 
of  the  connection. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady, 
he  has  not  taken  her  fortune  :  that  remains  in  this  family 
to  console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mer¬ 
cenary  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  that ’s  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hardcastle.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of  age, 
refuses  to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is  then  al 
her  own  disposal 


31 


362 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


Mrs.  ffardcastle.  Ay,  but  he ’s  not  of  age,  and  she  has 
not  thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Ilardcastle.  {Aside)  What,  returned  so  soon 
I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings.  ( To  Hardcastle)  For  my  late  attempt  to 
fly  off  with  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be  my 
punishment.  Wh  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal  fiom 
your  justice  to  your  humanity.  By  her  father’s  consent 
I  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our  passions  were  first 
founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged  to 
stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an  hour  of 
levity,  I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to  secure 
my  choice  i  But  I  am  now  recovered  from  the  delusion, 
and  hope,  from  your  tenderness,  what  is  denied  me  from 
a  nearer  connection. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pshaw,  pshaw ;  this  is  all  but  the 
whining  end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hardcastle.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I ’m  glad  they’re  come 
back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony,  boy.  Do 
you  refuse  this  lady’s  hand,  whom  I  now  offer  you? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing ?  You  know  I  can' t 

refuse  her  till  I ’m  of  age,  father. 

Hardcastle.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  ooy, 
was  likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  concurred 
with  your  mother’s  desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But  since  I 
find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must  now  declare  you 
have  been  of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.  Of  age  !  Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUETi 


869 


Hardcastle.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you  ’ll  see  the  first  use  I  ’ll  make,  of  my 
liberty.  (  Taking  Miss  Neville’s  hand)  Witness  all  men 
by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin,  esquire,  of 
blank  place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Neville,  spinster,  of 
co  place  at  all,  for  my  true  and  lawful  wife.  So  Con- 
Btance  Neville  may  marry  whom  she  pleases,  and  Tony 
Lumpkin  is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Charles.  O  brave  Squire  ! 

Hastings.  My  worthy  friend ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  un dutiful  offspring ! 

Marlov.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sin¬ 
cerely  !  And,  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant  here 
♦o  be  less  arbitrary,  I  should  be  the  happiest  man  alive, 
f  you  would  return  me  the  favor. 

Hastings.  ( To  Miss  Hardcastle )  Come,  madam,  you 
nre  now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  ot  all  your  con¬ 
trivances.  I  know  you  like  him,  1  ’m  sure  he  loves  you, 
and  you  must  and  shall  have  him. 

Hardcastle.  ( Joining  their  hands )  And  I  say  so  too. 
And,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  she  has 
a  daughter,  I  do  n’t  believe  you  ’ll  ever  repent  your  bar¬ 
gain.  So  now  to  supper.  To-morrow  we  shall  gather 
all  the  poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and  the  mistakes  of 
the  night  shall  be  crowned  with  a  merry  morning.  So, 
tx>y,  take  her ;  and  as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the 
mistress,  my  wish  is,  that  you  may  never  be  mistaken  in 
the  wife.  [ Exeunt  Omnes. 


364 


RHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEH. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF  MISS 

HARDCASTLE. 

Well,  having  stoop’d  to  conquer  with  success, 

And  gain’d  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress. 

Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too. 

As  I  have  conquer’d  him  to  conquer  you  : 

And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution. 

That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 

Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please  ; 

4  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances.’ 

The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid, 
Harmless  and  young,  cf  everything  afraid ; 

Blushes  when  hired,  and,  with  unmeaning  action, 

‘  I  hopes  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction.’ 

Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene,  — 

Th’  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn, 

Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 
Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the  waiters 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  sh ’  r^rs, 
The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseur %  : 

On  squires  and  cits  she  there  displays  her 
And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers’  Wrts : 

And,  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  t»  e*u»niete, 

E’en  common- coun oilmen  forget  to  *xvt. 


SITE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


30>rJ 


The  fourth  act  shews  her  wedded  to  the  squire, 
And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher; 
Pretends  to  taste,  at  opera  cries  caro , 

And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson  for  Che  Faro  r 
Doats  upcn  dancing,  and,  in  all  her  pride, 

Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside 
Ogles  and  leers,  with  artificial  skill, 

Till,  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 

She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadilla. 
Such,  through  our  lives,  th’  eventful  history  ! 
The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me : 

The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  praya, 
Turns  fem&ie  Barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bays 


366 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER. 


EPILOGUE,  * 

TO  BF  SPOKEN  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF  TONY  LUMPILIlf, 

BY  J.  CRADOCK,  ESQ. 

Well,  now  all’s  ended,  and  my  comrades  gone, 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother’s  nonly  son  ? 

A  hopeful  blade  !  —  in  town  I  ’ll  fix  my  station. 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation : 

As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her  — 

Off,  in  a  crack,  I  ’ll  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear  ? 

I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  1 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 

In  London  —  gad,  they ’ve  some  regard  to  spirit 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 

And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets ; 

Then  hoiks  to  jigs  and  pastimes  every  night  — 
Not  to  the  plays  —  they  say  it  an’t  polite  : 

To  Sadler’s  Wells,  perhaps,  or  operas  go, 

And  once,  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 

Thus,  here  and  there,  forever  up  and  down ; 
We’ll  set  the  fashions,  too,  to  half  the  town; 

And  then  at  auctions  —  money  ne’er  regard  — 
Buy  pictures,  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a-yard : 
Zounds  !  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say, 
We  know  what ’s  damn’d  genteel  as  well  as  they  1 

*  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken 


ESSAYS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  whimsical  figure  in 
nature,  than  a  man  of  real  modesty  who  assumes  an  ail 
of  impudence ;  who,  while  his  heart  beats  with  anxiety 
studies  ease  and  affects  good-humor.  In  this  situation, 
however,  every  unexperienced  writer,  as  I  am,  finds  him¬ 
self.*  Impressed  with  terrors  of  the  tribunal  before  which 
he  is  going  to  appear,  his  natural  humor  turns  to  pert 
ness,  and  for  real  wit  he  is  obliged  to  substitute  vivacity. 

For  my  part,  as  I  was  never  distinguished  for  address, 
and  have  often  even  blundered  in  making  my  bow.  I  am 
at  a  loss  whether  to  be  merry  or  sad  on  this  solemn  occa¬ 
sion.  Should  I  modestly  decline  all  merit,  it  is  too  proba¬ 
ble  the  hasty  reader  may  take  me  at  my  wrord.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  like  laborers  in  the  magazine  trade,  I 
humbly  presume  to  promise  an  epitome  of  all  the  good 
things  that  were  ever  said  or  written,  those  readers  I  most 
desire  to  please  may  forsake  me. 

My  bookseller,  in  this  dilemma,  perceiving  my  embar¬ 
rassment,  instantly  offered  his  assistance  and  advice. 
u  You  must  know,  sir,”  says  he,  u  that  the  republic  of  let¬ 
ters  is  at  present  divided  into  several  classes.  One 
writer  excels  at  a  plan  or  a  title-page ;  another  wrorks 
away  at  the  body  of  the  book ;  and  a  third  is  a  dab  at  an 
index.  Thus  a  magazine  is  not  the  result  of  any  single 


S68 


ESSAYS. 


man  s  industry,  but  goes  through  as  many  hands  as  a  new 
pin,  before  it  is  fit  for  the  public.  I  fancy,  sir,”  continues 
he,  “  I  can  provide  an  eminent  hand,  and  upon  moderate 
terms,  to  draw  up  a  promising  plan  to  smooth  up  our 
readers  a  little  ;  and  pay  them,  as  Colonel  Chartres  paid 
his  seraglio,  at  the  rate  of  three-halfpence  in  hand,  and 
three  shillings  more  in  promises.” 

He  was  proceeding  in  his  advice,  which,  however,  I 
thought  proper  to  decline,  by  assuring  him,  that  as  I  in¬ 
tended  to  pursue  no  fixed  method,  so  it  was  impossible  to 
form  any  regular  plan ;  determined  never  to  be  tedious 
in  order  to  be  logical ;  wherever  pleasure  presented,  I  was 
resolved  to  follow. 

It  will  be  improper,  therefore,  to  pall  the  reader’s  cu¬ 
riosity  by  lessening  his  surprise,  or  anticipate  any  pleasure 
I  am  to  procure  him,  by  saying  what  shall  come  next. 
Happy,  could  any  effort  of  mine  but  repress  one  criminal 
pleasure,  or  but  for  a  moment  fill  up  an  interval  of  anxi¬ 
ety  ?  How  gladly  would  I  lead  mankind  from  the  vain 
prospects  of  life,  to  prospects  of  innocence  and  ease, 
where  every  breeze  breathes  health,  and  every  sound  is 
but  the  echo  of  tranquillity  ! 

But  whatever  may  be  the  merit  of  his  intentions, 
every  writer  is  now  convinced  that  he  must  be  chiefly 
indebted  to  good  fortune  for  finding  readers  willing  to 
allow  him  any  degree  of  reputation.  It  has  been  re¬ 
marked,  that  almost  every  character  which  has  excited 
either  attention  or  pity,  has  owed  part  of  its  success  to 
merit,  and  part  to  a  happy  concurrence  of  circumstances 
in  its  favor.  Had  Caesar  or  Cromwell  exchanged  coun¬ 
tries,  the  one  might  have  been  a  serjeant,  and  the  other 


ESSAYS. 


369 


an  exciseman.  So  it  is  with  wit,  which  generally  sue 
ceeds  more  from  being  happily  addressed,  than  from  its 
native  poignancy.  A  jest  calculated  to  spread  at  a  gaming¬ 
table,  may  be  received  with  perfect  indifference  should  it 
happen  to  drop  in  a  mackerel-boat.  We  have  all  seen 
dunces  triumph  in  some  companies,  where  men  of  real 
humor  were  disregarded,  by  a  general  combination  in 
favor  of  stupidity.  To  drive  the  observation  as  far  as  it 
will  go,  should  the  labors  of  a  writer,  who  designs  his 
performances  for  readers  of  a  more  refined  appetite,  fall 
into  the  hands  of  a  devourer  of  compilations,  what  can 
he  expect  but  contempt  and  confusion?  If  his  merits 
are  to  be  determined  by  judges  who  estimate  the  value 
of  a  book  from  its  bulk,  or  its  frontispiece,  every  rival 
must  acquire  an  easy  superiority,  who  with  persuasive 
eloquence  promises  four  extraordinary  pages  of  letter- 
press,  or  three  beautiful  prints,  curiously  colored  from 
Nature. 

Thus,  then,  though  I  cannot  promise  as  much  enter¬ 
tainment,  or  as  much  elegance,  as  others  have  done,  yet 
the  reader  may  be  assured  he  shall  have  as  much  of  both 
as  I  can.  He  shall,  at  least,  find  me  alive  while  I  study 
his  entertainment ;  for  I  solemnly  assure  him,  I  was 
never  yet  possessed  of  the  secret  of  writing  and  sleep¬ 
ing. 

During  the  course  of  this  paper,  therefore,  all  the  wit 
and  learning  I  have,  are  heartily  at  his  service ;  which  if, 
after  so  candid  a  confession,  he  should,  notwithstanding, 
still  find  intolerably  dull,  or  low,  or  sad  stuffj  this  I  protest 
is  more  than  I  know ;  I  have  a  clear  conscience,  and  an» 
entirely  out  of  the  secret. 


S70 


ESSAYS. 


Yet  I  would  not  have  him,  upon  the  perusal  of  a  single 
paper,  pronounce  me  incorrigible  ;  he  may  try  a  second, 
which,  as  there  is  a  studied  difference  in  subject  and  style, 
may  be  more  suited  to  his  taste  ;  if  this  also  fails,  I  must 
refer  him  to  a  third,  or  even  a  fourth,  in  case  of  extremi 
ty ;  if  he  should  still  continue  refractory,  and  find  me  dull 
to  the  last,  I  must  inform  him,  with  Bayes  in  the  Re¬ 
hearsal,  that  I  think  him  a  very  odd  kind  of  fellow,  and 
desire  no  more  of  his  acquaintance  ,  but  still,  if  my  read¬ 
ers  impute  the  general  tenor  of  my  subject  to  me  as  a 
fault,  I  must  beg  leave  to  tell  them  a  story. 

A  traveller,  in  his  way  to  Italy,  found  himself  in  a  coun¬ 
try  where  the  inhabitants  had  each  a  large  excrescence 
depending  from  the  chin  ;  a  deformity  which,  as  it  was 
endemic,  and  the  people  little  used  to  strangers,  it  had 
been  the  custom,  time  immemorial,  to  look  upon  as  the 
greatest  beauty.  Ladies  grew  toasts  from  the  size  of 
their  chins,  and  no  men  were  beaux  whose  faces  were 
not  broadest  at  the  bottom.  It  was  Sunday  ;  a  country- 
church  was  at  hand,  and  our  traveller  was  willing  to  per¬ 
form  the  duties  of  the  day.  Upon  his  first  appearance 
at  the  church-door,  the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  on  the 
stranger  ;  but  what  was  their  amazement,  when  they 
found  that  he  actually  wanted  that  emblem  of  beauty,  a 
pursed  chin  !  Stifled  bursts  of  laughter,  winks,  and  whis¬ 
pers,  circulated  from  visage  to  visage;  the  prismatic 
figure  of  the  stranger’s  face,  was  a  fund  of  infinite  gaiety 
Our  traveller  could  no  longer  patiently  continue  an  object 
of  deformity  to  point  at.  “  Good  folks,”  said  he,  “  I  per¬ 
ceive  that  I  am  a  very  ridiculous  figure  here,  but  I  assure 
you  I  am  reckoned  no  way  deformed  at  home.” 


ESSAYS 


371 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP;  OR  THE  STORY  OF  AL 
CANDER  AND  SEPTIMIUS. 

Taken  from  a  Byzantine  Historian. 

Athens,  even  long  after  the  decline  of  the  Roman 
empire,  still  continued  the  seat  of  learning,  politeness,  and 
wisdom.  Theodoric,  the  Ostrogoth,  repaired  the  schools 
which  barbarity  was  suffering  to  fall  into  decay,  and  con¬ 
tinued  those  pensions  to  men  of  learning,  which  avari¬ 
cious  governors  had  monopolized. 

In  this  city,  and  about  this  period,  Alcander  and  Sep* 
timius  were  fellow-students  together ;  the  one,  the  most 
subtle  reasoner  of  all  the  Lyceum ;  the  other,  the  most 
eloquent  speaker  in  the  Academic  grove.  Mutual  ad¬ 
miration  soon  begot  a  friendship.  Their  fortunes  were 
nearly  equal,  and  they  were  natives  of  the  two  most  cel¬ 
ebrated  cities  in  the  world-;  for  Alcander  was  of  Athens, 
Septimius  came  from  Rome. 

In  this  state  of  harmony  they  lived  for  some  time  to¬ 
gether,  when  Alcander,  after  passing  the  first  part  of  his 
youth  in  the  indolence  of  philosophy,  thought  at  length 
of  entering  into  the  busy  world ;  and  as  a  step  previous 
to  this,  placed  his  affections  on  Hypatia,  a  lady  of  exqui 
site  beauty.  The  day  of  their  intended  nuptials  was 
fixed ;  the  previous  ceremonies  were  performed ;  and 
nothir.g  now  remained  but  her  being  conducted  in  tri¬ 
umph  to  the  apartment  of  the  intended  bridegroom. 

Alcander’s  exultation  in  his  own  happiness,  or  being 
unable  to  enjoy  any  satisfaction  without  making  his  friend 
Septimius  a  partner,  prevailed  upon  him  to  introduce 


572 


ESSAYS. 


Hypatia  to  his  fellow-student;  which  he  did,  with  all  the 
gaiety  of  a  man  who  found  himself  equally  happy  in 
friendship  and  love.  But  this  was  an  interview  fatal  tc 
the  future  peace  of  both ;  for  Septimius  no  sooner  saw 
her  but  he  was  smitten  with  an  involuntary  passion  ;  and 
though  he  used  every  effort  to  suppress  desires  at  once  so 
imprudent  and  unjust,  the  emotions  of  his  mind  in  a  short 
time  became  so  strong,  that  they  brought  on  a  fever, 
which  the  physicians  judged  incurable. 

During  this  illness  Alcander  watched  him  with  all  the 
anxiety  of  fondness,  and  brought  his  mistress  to  join  in 
those  amiable  offices  of  friendship.  The  sagacity  of  the 
physicians,  by  these  means,  soon  discovered  that  the  cause 
of  their  patient’s  disorder  was  love  ;  and  Alcander,  being 
apprized  of  their  discovery,  at  length  extorted  a  confes¬ 
sion  from  the  reluctant  dying  lover. 

It  would  but  delay  the  narrative  to  describe  the  contlict 
between  love  and  friendship  in  the  breast  of  Alcander  cn 
this  occasion  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the  Athenians  were 
at  that  time  arrived  at  such  refinement  in  morals,  that 
every  virtue  was  carried  to  excess  :  in  short,  forgetful  of 
his  own  felicity,  he  gave  up  his  intended  bride,  in  all  her 
charms,  to  the  young  Roman.  They  were  married  pri¬ 
vately  by  his  connivance,  and  this  unlooked-for  change  of 
fortune  wrought  as  unexpected  a  change  in  the  constitu¬ 
tion  of  the  now  happy  Septimius.  In  a  few  days  he  was 
perfectly  recovered,  and  set  out  with  his  fair  partner  for 
Rome.  Here,  by  an  exertion  of  those  talents  which  he 
was  so  eminently  possessed  of,  Septimius,  in  a  few  years, 
arrived  at  the  highest  dignities  of  the  state,  and  was  con¬ 
stituted  the  city  judge,  or  praetor. 


ESSAYS. 


373 


In  the  mean  time  Alcander  not  only  felt  the  pain  of 
being  separated  from  his  friend  and  his  mistiess,  but  a 
prosecution  was  commenced  against  him  by  the  relations 
of  Hypatia,  for  having  basely  given  up  his  bride,  as  was 
suggested  for  money.  His  innocence  ot  the  ciime  laid  to 
his  charge,  and  even  his  eloquence  in  his  own  defence, 
were  not  able  to  withstand  the  influence  of  a  powerful 
party.  He  was  cast,  and  condemned  to  pay  an  enormous 
line.  However,  being  unable  to  raise  so  large  a  sum  at 
the  time  appointed,  his  possessions  were  confiscated,  he 
himself  was  stripped  of  the  habit  of  freedom,  exposed  as 
a  slave  in  the  market-place,  and  sold  to  the  highest 
bidder. 

A  merchant  of  Thrace  becoming  his  purchaser,  Al¬ 
cander,  with  some  other  companions  of  distress,  was  car¬ 
ried  into  that  region  of'  desolation  and  sterility.  His 
stated  employment  was  to  follow  the  herds  of  an  imperi¬ 
ous  master,  and  his  success  in  hunting  was  all  that  was 
allowed  him  to  supply  his  precarious  subsistence.  Every 
morning  awaked  him  to  a  renewal  of  famine  or  toil,  and 
every  change  ot  season  served  but  to  aggravate  his  un 
sheltered  distress.  After  some  years  of  bondage,  how¬ 
ever,  an  opportunity  of  escaping  offered  ;  he  embraced  it 
with  ardor ;  so  that  travelling  by  night,  and  lodging  in 
caverns  by  day,  to  shorten  a  long  story,  he  at  last  ai lived 
in  Rome.  The  same  day  on  which  Alcander  arrived, 
Septimius  sat  administering  justice  in  the  forum,  whither 
our  wanderer  came,  expecting  to  be  instantly  known,  and 
publicly  acknowledged  by  his  former  friend.  Here  he 
stood  the  whole  day  amongst  the  ciowd,  watching  the 
eyes  of  the  judge,  and  expecting  to  be  taken  notice  of 

32 


374 


ESSAYS. 


but  he  was  so  much  altered  by  a  long  succession  of  hard 
ships,  that  he  continued  unnoticed  amongst  the  rest;  and 
in  the  evening,  when  he  was  going  up  to  the  praetor’s 
chair,  he  was  brutally  repulsed  by  the  attending  lictors. 
The  attention  of  the  poor  is  generally  driven  from  one 
ungrateful  object  to  another;  for  night  coming  on,  he 
now  found  himself  under  the  necessity  of  seeking  a  place 
to  lie  in,  and  yet  knew  not  where  to  apply.  All  ema¬ 
ciated,  and  in  rags,  as  he  was,  none  of  the  citizens  would 
harbor  so  much  wretchedness ;  and  sleeping  in  the  streets 
might  be  attended  with  interruption  or  danger ;  in  short, 
he  was  obliged  to  take  up  his  lodgings  in  one  of  the 
tombs  without  the  city,  the  usual  retreat  of  guilt,  poverty, 
and  despair.  In  this  mansion  of  horror,  laying  his  head 
upon  an  inverted  urn,  he  forgot  his  miseries  for  a  while 
*n  sleep,  and  found  on  his  flinty  couch  more  ease  than 
beds  of  down  can  supply  to  the  guilty. 

As  he  continued  here  about  midnight  two  robbers 
came  to  make  this  their  retreat,  but  happening  to  dis¬ 
agree  about  the  division  of  their  plunder,  one  of  them 
6 tabbed  the  other  to  the  heart,  and  left  him  weltering  in 
blood  at  the  entrance.  In  these  circumstances  he  was 
found  next  morning  dead  at  the  mouth  of  the  vault 
This  naturally  inducing  a  farther  inquiry,  an  alarm  was 
spread;  the  cave  was  examined;  and  Alcander  being 
found,  was  immediately  apprehended,  and  accused  of 
robbery  and  murder.  The  circumstances  against  him 
were  strong,  and  the  wretchedness  of  his  appearance 
confirmed  suspicion.  Misfortune  and  he  were  now  so 
long  acquainted,  that  he  at  last  became  regardless  of  life. 
He  detested  a  world  where  he  had  found  only  ingratitude 


ESSAYS. 


375 


falsehood,  and  cruelty ;  he  was  determined  to  make  no 
defence ;  and  thus,  lowering  with  resolution,  he  was 
dragged  bound  with  cords  before  the  tribunal  of  Sep- 
timius.  As  the  proofs  were  positive  against  him,  and  he 
offered  nothing  in  his  own  vindication,  the  judge  was  pro 
ceeding  to  doom  him  to  a  most  cruel  and  ignominiou® 
death,  when  the  attention  of  the  multitude  was  soon  &»* 
verted  by  another  object.  The  robber,  who  had  been 
really  guilty,  was  apprehended  selling  his  plunder,  and 
6truck  with  a  panic,  had  confessed  his  crime.  He  was 
brought  bound  to  the  same  tribunal,  and  acquitted  every 
other  person  of  any  partnership  in  his  guilt.  Alcander’s 
innocence  therefore  appeared ;  but  the  sullen  rashness  of 
his  conduct  remained  a  wonder  to  the  surrounding  multi¬ 
tude  ;  but  their  astonishment  was  still  farther  increased 
when  they  saw  their  judge  start  from  his  tribunal  to  em¬ 
brace  the  supposed  criminal.  Septimius  recollected  his 
friend  and  former  benefactor,  and  hung  upon  his  neck 
with  tears  of  pity  and  joy.  Need  the  sequel  be  related  ? 
—  Alcander  was  acquitted,  shared  the  friendship  and 
honors  of  the  principal  citizens  of  Home,  lived  afterwards 
in  happiness  and  ease,  and  left  it  to  be  engraved  on  his 
tomb,  that  no  circumstances  are  so  desperate  which  Pro 
dence  may  not  relieve. 


ON  HAPPINESS  OF  TEMPER. 

Wiien  I  reflect  on  the  unambitious  retirement  in  which 
l  passed  the  early  part  of  my  life  in  the  country,  I  cannot 
avoid  feeling  some  pain  in  thinking  that  those  happ} 


376 


ESSAYS. 


days  are  neve**  return.  In  that  retreat  all  nature 
seemed  capaole  or  affording  pleasure ;  I  then  made  no 
refinements  on  happiness,  but  could  be  pleased  with  the 
most  awkward  efforts  of  rustic  mirth,  thought  cross-pur¬ 
poses  the  highest  stretch  of  human  wit,  and  questions 
and  commands  the  most  rational  way  of  spending  the 
evening.  Happy  could  so  charming  an  illusion  continue ! 
I  find  that  age  and  knowledge  only  contribute  to  sour  our 
dispositions.  My  present  enjoyments  may  be  more  re¬ 
fined,  but  they  are  infinitely  less  pleasing.  The  pleasure 
the  best  actor  gives,  can  no  way  compare  to  that  I  have 
received  from  a  country  wag  who  imitated  a  quaker’s 
sermon.  The  music  of  the  finest  singer  is  dissonance  to 
what  I  felt  when  our  old  dairy-maid  sung  me  into  tears 
with  Johnny  Armstrong’s  Last  Good  Night,  or  the  Cru 
elty  of  Barbara  Allen. 

Writers  of  every  age  have  endeavored  to  show  that 
pleasure  is  in  us,  and  not  in  the  objects  offered  for  our 
amusement.  If  the  soul  be  happily  disposed,  everything 
becomes  capable  of  affording  entertainment,  and  distress 
will  almost  want  a  name.  Every  occurrence  passes  in 
review  like  the  figures  of  a  procession :  some  may  be 
awkward,  others  ill-dressed ;  but  none  but  a  fool  is  for 
this  enraged  with  the  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

I  remember  to  have  once  seen  a  slave  in  a  fortification 
in  Flanders,  who  appeared  no  way  touched  with  his  situ¬ 
ation.  He  was  maimed,  deformed,  and  chained ;  obliged 
to  toil  from  the  appearance  of  day  till  night-fall ;  and 
condemned  to  this  for  life :  yet,  with  all  these  circurn 
stances  of  apparent  wretchedness,  he  sung,  would  have 
danced  but  that  he  wanted  a  leg,  and  appeared  the  mer 


ESSAYS. 


V7  *7 
0  4  i 

riest,  happiest  man  of  all  the  garrison.  Whac  a  practical 
philosopher  was  here !  a  happy  constitution  supplied  phi 
losophy;  and  though  seemingly  destitute  of  wisdom,  he 
was  really  wise.  No  reading  or  study  had  contributed 
to  disenchant  the  fairy -land  around  him.  Every  thing 
furnished  him  with  an  opportunity  of  mirth ;  and,  though 
some  thought  him.  from  his  insensibility,  a  fool,  he  was 
such  an  idiot  as  philosophers  should  wish  to  imitate ;  for 
all  philosophy  is  only  forcing  the  trade  of  happiness, 
when  nature  seems  to  deny  the  means. 

They  who,  like  our  slave,  can  place  themselves  on 
that  side  of  the  world  in  which  every  thing  appears  in  a 
pleasing  light,  will  find  something  in  every  occurrence  to 
excite  their  good-humor.  The  most  calamitous  events, 
either  to  themselves  or  others,  can  bring  no  new  afllic- 
tion;  the  whole  world  is  to  them  a  theatre,  on  which 
comedies  only  are  acted.  All  the  bustle  of  heroism,  or 
the  rants  of  ambition,  serve  only  to  heighten  the  absurd¬ 
ity  of  the  scene,  and  make  the  humor  more  poignant. 
They  feel,  in  short,  as  little  anguish  at  their  own  distress, 
or  the  complaints  of  others,  as  the  undertaker,  though 
dressed  in  black,  feels  sorrow  at  a  funeral. 

Of  all  the  men  I  ever  read  of,  the  famous  cardinal  da 
Retz  possessed  this  happiness  of  temper  in  the  highest 
degree.  As  he  was  a  man  of  gallantry,  and  despised  all 
that  wore  the  pedantic  appearance  of  philosophy,  when¬ 
ever  pleasure  was  to  be  sold,  he  was  generally  foremost 
to  raise  the  auction.  Being  a  universal  admirer  of  the 
fair  sex,  when  he  found  one  lady  cruel,  he  generally  fell 
in  love  with  another,  from  whom  he  expected  a  more 
favorable  reception.  If  she  too  rejected  his  addresses 

32* 


378 


ESSAYS. 


he  never  thought  of  retiring  into  deserts,  or  pining  in 
nopeless  distress :  he  persuaded  himself,  that  instead  of 
loving  the  lady,  he  only  fancied  that  he  had  loved  her 
and  so  all  was  well  again.  When  Fortune  wore  her 
angriest  look,  and  he  at  last  fell  into  the  power  of  his 
most  deadly  enemy,  Cardinal  Mazarine  (being  confined  a 
close  prisoner  in  the  castle  of  Valenciennes),  he  never 
attempted  to  support  his  distress  by  wisdom  or  philoso¬ 
phy,  for  he  pretended  to  neither.  He  only  laughed  at 
himself  and  his  persecutor,  and  seemed  infinitely  pleased 
at  his  new  situation.  In  this  mansion  of  distress,  though 
secluded  from  his  friends,  though  denied  all  the  amuse¬ 
ments,  and  even  the  coveniences  of  life,  he  still  retained 
his  good-humor,  laughed  at  all  the  little  spite  of  his  ene¬ 
mies,  and  carried  tlfle  jest  so  far  as  to  be  revenged  by 
writing  the  life  of  his  jailer. 

All  that  the  wisdom  of  the  proud  can  teach  is  to  be 
stubborn  or  sullen  under  misfortunes.  The  cardinal’s  ex¬ 
ample  will  instruct  us  to  be  merry  in  circumstances  of 
the  highest  affliction.  It  matters  not  whether  our  good- 
humor  be  construed  by  others  into  insensibility,  or  even 
idiotism ;  it  is  happiness  to  ourselves,  and  none  but  a  fool 
would  measure  his  satisfaction  by  what  the  world  thinks 
of  it ;  for  my  own  part,  I  never  pass  by  one  of  our  pris¬ 
ons  for  debt,  that  I  do  not  envy  that  felicity  which  is 
still  going  forward  among  those  people,  who  forget  the 
cares  of  the  world  by  being  shut  out  from  its  silly  ambi¬ 
tion. 

The  happiest  silly  fellow  I  ever  knew,  was  of  the 
number  of  those  good-natured  creatures  that  are  said  to 
do  no  harm  to  any  but  themselves.  Whenever  he  fell 


ESSAYS. 


379 


into  misery,  he  usually  called  it  seeing  life.  If  his  head 
was  broke  by  a  chairman,  or  his  pocket  picked  by  a 
sharper,  he  comforted  himself  by  imitating  the  Hiber 
nian  dialect  of  the  one,  or  the  more  fashionable  cant  of 
the  other.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  him.  His  inattention 
to  money-matters  had  incensed  his  father  to  such  a  de¬ 
gree,  that  all  the  intercession  of  friends  in  his  favor  was 
fruitless.  The  old  gentleman  was  on  his  deatli-bed. 
The  whole  family,  and  Dick  among  the  number,  gath¬ 
ered  around  him.  “  I  leave  my  second  son,  Andrew,” 
said  the  expiring  miser,  “  my  whole  estate,  and  desire 
him  to  be  frugal.”  Andrew,  in  a  sorrowful  tone,  as  is 
usual  on  these  occasions,  prayed  Heaven  to  prolong  his 
life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  himself.  “I  recommend 
Simon,  my  third  son,  to  the  care  of  his  elder  brother,  and 
leave  him  beside  four  thousand  pounds.”  —  “Ah  !  father,” 
cried  Simon,  in  great  affliction  to  be  sure,  “  may  Heaven 
give  you  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!”  At  last, 
turning  to  poor  Dick,  “  As  for  you,  you  have  always  been 
a  sad  dog ;  you’ll  never  come  to  good ;  you’ll  never  be 
rich  ;  I’ll  leave  you  a  shilling  to  buy  a  halter.”  —  “  Ah! 
father,”  cries  Dick,  without  any  emotion,  “  may  Heaven 
give  you  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!  ”  This  was 
*11  the  trouble  the  loss  of  fortune  gave  this  thoughtless, 
‘mprudent  creature.  However,  the  tenderness  of  an 
uncle  recompensed  the  neglect  of  a  father ;  and  my 
friend  is  now  not  only  excessively  good-humored,  but 
competently  rich. 

Yes,  let  the  world  cry  out  at  a  bankrupt  who  appears 
at  a  ball,  at  an  author  who  laughs  at  the  public  which 
pronounces  him  a  dunce,  at  a  general  who  smiles  at  the 


580 


ESSAYS. 


approach  of  the  vulgar,  or  the  lady  who  keeps  her  good 
humor  in  spite  of  scandal ;  but  such  is  the  wisest  be 
havior  that  any  of  us  can  possibly  assume.  It  is  certainly 
a  better  way  to  oppose  calamity  by  dissipation,  than  to 
take  up  the  arms  of  reason  or  resolution  to  oppose  it ;  by 
the  first  method,  we  forget  our  miseries  ;  by  the  last,  we 
©nly  conceal  them  from  others :  by  struggling  with  mis 
fortunes,  we  are  sure  to  receive  some  wounds  in  the  con¬ 
flict  ;  but  a  sure  method  to  come  off  victorious,  is  by 
running  away. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  VARIOUS  CLUBS. 

1  remember  to  have  read  in  some  philosopher  (I  be¬ 
lieve  in  Tom  Brown’s  works),  that,  let  a  man’s  character, 
sentiments,  or  complexion,  be  what  they  will,  he  can  find 
company  in  London  to  match  them.  If  he  be  splenetic, 
he  may  every  day  meet  companions  on  the  seats  in  St. 
James’s  Park,  with  whose  groans  he  may  mix  his  own, 
and  pathetically  talk  of  the  weather.  If  he  be  passionate, 
he  may  vent  his  rage  among  the  old  orators  at  Slaughter's 
coffee-house,  and  damn  the  nation  because  it  keeps  him 
horn  starving.  If  he  be  phlegmatic,  he  may  sit  in  silence 
at  the  Humdrum  club  in  Ivy-lane ;  and,  if  actually  mad, 
he  may  find  very  good  company  in  Moorfields,  either  at 
Bedlam  or  the  Foundry,  ready  to  cultivate  a  nearer  ac¬ 
quaintance. 

But,  although  such  as  have  a  knowledge  of  the  towD 
may  easily  class  themselves  with  tempers  congenial  to 
their  own,  p  countryman  who  comes  to  live  in  Londoo 


V 


ESSAYS. 


331 


finds  nothing  more  difficult,  With  regard  to  myself,  none 
ever  tried  with  more  assiduity,  or  came  off*  with  such  in¬ 
different  success.  I  spent  a  whole  season  in  the  search, 
during  which  time  my  name  has  been  enrolled  in  so¬ 
cieties,  lodges,  convocations,  and  meetings,  without  num¬ 
ber.  To  some  I  was  introduced  by  a  friend,  to  others 
invited  by  an  advertisement ;  to  these  I  introduced  my 
self,  and  to  those  I  changed  my  name  to  gain  admit 
tance.  In  short,  no  coquette  was  ever  more  solicitous  to 
match  her  ribands  to  her  complexion,  than  I  to  suit  my 
club  to  my  temper ;  for  I  was  too  obstinate  to  bring  my 
temper  to  conform  to  it. 

The  first  club  I  entered,  upon  coming  to  town,  was 
that  of  the  Choice  Spirits.  The  name  was  entirely  suit¬ 
ed  to  my  taste  ;  1  was  a  lover  of  mirth,  good-humor,  and 
even  sometimes  of  fun,  from  my  childhood. 

As  no  other  passport  was  requisite  but  the  payment  of 
two  shillings  at  the  door,  I  introduced  myself  without 
farther  ceremony  to  the  members,  who  were  already  as 
sembled,  and  had,  for  some  time,  begun  upon  business. 
The  grand,  with  a  mallet  in  his  hand,  presided  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  I  could  not  avoid,  upon  my  entrance,  mak¬ 
ing  use  of  all  my  skill  in  physiognomy,  in  order  to  dis¬ 
cover  that  superiority  of  genius  in  men  who  had  taken  a 
title  so  superior  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  I  expected  to 
Bee  the  lines  of  every  face  marked  with  strong  thinking ; 
but,  though  I  had  some  skill  in  this  science,  I  could  for 
my  life  discover  nothing  but  a  pert  simper,  fat  or  profound 
stupidity. 

My  speculations  were  soon  interrupted  by  the  grand 
who  had  knocked  down  Mi’.  Spriggins  for  a  song.  I  wa 9 


582 


ESSAfS. 


apon  this,  whispered  by  one  of  the  company  who  sat  next 
me,  that  I  should  now  see  something  touched  off  to  a 
nicety,  for  Mr.  Spriggins  was  going  to  give  us  Mad  Tom 
in  all  its  glory.  Mr.  Spriggins  endeavored  to  excuse 
himself;  for,  as  he  was  to  act  a  madman  and  a  king,  it 
was  impossible  to  go  through  the  part  properly  without  a 
thrown  and  chains.  His  excuses  were  overruled  by  a 
great  majority,  and  with  much  vociferation.  The  presi¬ 
dent  ordered  up  the  jack-chain ;  and,  instead  of  a  crown, 
our  performer  covered  his  brows  with  an  inverted  jordan. 
After  he  had  rattled  his  chain,  and  shook  his  head,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  whole  company,  he  began  his  song. 
As  I  have  heard  few  young  fellows  offer  to  sing  in  com 
pany  that  did  not  expose  themselves,  it  was  no  great  dis¬ 
appointment  to  me  to  find  Mr.  Spriggins  among  the  num 
ber ;  however,  not  to  seem  an  odd  fish,  I  rose  from  my 
seat  in  rapture,  cried  out,  u  Bravo!  encore  !  ”  and  slapped 
the  table  as  loud  as  any  of  the  rest. 

The  gentleman  who  sat  next  me  seemed  highly  pleased 
with  my  taste,  and  the  ardor  of  my  approbation ;  and 
whispering  told  me  I  had  suffered  an  immense  loss  ;  for, 
had  I  come  a  few  minutes  sooner,  I  might  have  heard 
Geelio  Dobbin  sung  in  a  tiptop  manner,  by  the  pimpled- 
aose  spirit  at  the  president’s  right  elbow ;  but  he  was 
■evaporated  before  I  came. 

As  I  was  expressing  my  uneasiness  at  this  disappoint¬ 
ment,  I  found  the  attention  of  the  company  employed 
upon  a  fat  figure,  who,  with  a  voice  more  rough  than  the 
Staffordshire  giant’s,  was  giving  us  the  u  Softly  sweet,  in 
Lydian  measure,”  of  Alexander’s  Feast.  After  a  short 
pause  of  admiration,  to  this  succeeded  a  Welsh  dialogue, 


ESSAYS. 


383 


with  the  humors  of  Teague  and  Taffy  ;  after  that  came 
on  Old  Jackson,  with  a  story  between  every  stanza :  next 
was  sung  the  Dust-Cart,  and  then  Solomons  Seng.  lLt 
glass  began  now  to  circulate  pretty  freely;  those  who 
were  silent  when  sober,  would  now  be  heard  in  their  turn 
every  man  had  his  song,  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  be  heard  as  well  as  any  of  the  rest :  one  beg¬ 
ged  to  be  heard  while  he  gave  Death  and  the  Lady  in 
high  taste ;  another  sung  to  a  plate  which  he  kept  trun¬ 
dling  on  the  edges  ;  nothing  was  now  heard  but  singing  > 
voice  rose  above  voice,  and  the  whole  became  one  univer¬ 
sal  shout,  when  the  landlord  came  to  acquaint  the  com¬ 
pany  that  the  reckoning  was  drunk  out.  Kabelais  calls 
the  moments  in  which  a  reckoning  is  mentioned,  the  most 
melancholy  of  our  lives :  never  was  so  much  noise  so 
quickly  quelled,  as  by  this  short  but  pathetic  oration  o a 
our  landlord.  “  Drunk  out !  ”  was  echoed  in  a  tone  of 
discontent  round  the  table :  “  drunk  out  already !  that 
was  very  odd  !  that  so  much  punch  could  be  drunk  out 
already  !  impossible  !  ”  The  landlord,  however,  seeming 
resolved  not  to  retreat  from  his  first  assurances,  the  com¬ 
pany  was  dissolved,  and  a  president  chosen  fer  the  night 
ensuing.  * 

A  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  was  complaining  some¬ 
time  after  of  the  entertainment  I  have  been  describing, 
proposed  to  bring  me  to  the  club  that  he  frequented  ; 
which  he  fancied,  would  suit  the  gravity  of  my  temper 
exactly.  “  We  have  at  the  Muzzy  dub,”  says  he,  “  no 
riotous  mirth  nor  awkward  ribaldry :  no  confusion  or 
bawling  ;  all  is  conducted  with  wisdom  and  decency  .  be- 
iides,  some  of  our  members  are  worth  forty  thousani 


ESSAYS. 


SS4 

pounds;  men  of  prudence  and  foresight  every  one  (A 
them  :  these  are  the  proper  acquaintance,  and  to  such  I 
will  to-night  introduce  you.”  I  was  charmed  at  the  pro¬ 
posal  ;  to  be  acquainted  with  men  worth  forty  thousand 
pounds,  and  to  talk  wisdom  the  whole  night,  were  offers 
that  threw  me  into  rapture. 

At  seven  o’clock,  I  was  accordingly  introduced  by  my 
friend ;  not  indeed  to  the  company,  for,  though  I  made 
my  best  bow,  they  seemed  insensible  of  my  approach; 
but  to  the  table  at  which  they  were  sitting.  Upon  my 
entering  the  room,  I  could  not  avoid  feeling  a  secret  ven¬ 
eration  from  the  solemnity  of  the  scene  before  me ;  the 
members  kept  a  profound  silence,  each  with  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth  and  a  pewter  pot  in  his  hand,  and  with  faces  that 
might  easily  be  construed  into  absolute  wisdom.  Happy 
society  !  thought  I  to  myself,  where  the  members  think 
before  they  speak,  deliver  nothing  rashly,  but  convey 
their  thoughts  to  each  other  pregnant  with  meaning,  and 
matured  by  reflection. 

In  this?  pleasing  speculation  I  continued  a  full  half 
hour,  expecting  each  moment  that  somebody  would  begin 
to  open  his  mouth ;  every  time  the  pipe  was  laid  down,  I 
expected  it  was  to  speak ;  but  it  was  only  to*  spit.  At 
length,  resolving  to  break  the  charm  myself,  and  over¬ 
come  their  extreme  diffidence,  for  to  this  I  imputed  their 
silence,  I  rubbed  my  hands,  and  looking  as  wise  as  possi¬ 
ble,  observed  that  the  nights  began  to  grow  a  little  coclish 
at  this  time  of  the  year.  This,  as  it  was  directed  to  none 
of  the  company  in  particular,  none  thought  himself 
obliged  to  answer  ;  wherefore  I  continued  still  to  rub  my 
hands  and  look  wise.  My  next  effort  was  addressed  to  a 


ESSAYS. 


385 


gentlemen  who  sat  next  me  ;  to  whom  1  observed,  that 
the  beer  was  extremely  good  ;  my  neighbor  made  no  re¬ 
ply  but  by  a  large  puff  of  tobaceo  smoke. 

1  now  began  to  be  uneasy  in  this  dumb  wciety,  till  one 
of  them  a  little  relieved  me  by  observing,  that  bread  had 
not  risen  these  three  weeks.  “  Ah !  ”  says  another,  still 
keeping  the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  “  that  puts  me  in  mind  of 
a  pleasant  story  about  that  —  hem  —  very  well ;  you 
must  know  —  but,  before  I  begin  —  sir,  my  service  to  you 
—  where  was  I  ?  ” 

My  next  club  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Harmonical 
Society  ;  probably  from  that  love  of  order  and  friendship 
which  every  person  commends  in  institutions  of  this  na¬ 
ture.  The  landlord  was  himself  founder.  The  money 
spent  is  fourpence  each ;  and  they  sometimes  whip  for  a 
double  reckoning.  To  this  club  few  recommendations  are 
requisite  except  the  introductory  fourpence,  and  my  land¬ 
lord’s  good  word,  which,  as  he  gains  by  it,  he  never 
refuses. 

We  all  here  talked  and  behaved  as  every  body  else 
usually  does  on  his  club-night ;  we  discussed  the  topic  of 
the  day,  drank  each  other's  healths,  snuffed  the  candles 
with  our  fingers,  and  filled  our  pipes  from  the  same  plate 
of  tobacco.  The  company  saluted  each  other  in  the 
common  manner.  Mr.  Bellows-mender  hoped  Mr.  Cur¬ 
rycomb-maker  had  not  caught  cold  going  home  the  last 
club-night ;  and  he  returned  the  compliment  by  hoping 
lhat  young  Master  Bellows-mender  had  got  well  again  of 
tfie  chin-cougli.  Doctor  Twist  told  us  a  story  of  a  parlia¬ 
ment  man  with  whom  he  was  intimately  acquainted; 
wl’ilo  the  bug-man,  at  the  same  time,  was  telling  a  better 

33 


38G 


KSSAIS. 


story  of  a  noble  lord  with  whom  he  could  do  anything 
A  gentleman  in  a  black  wig  and  leather  breeches,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  was  engaged  in  a  long  narrative 
of  the  ghost  in  Cock -lane  :  he  had  read  it  in  the  -  papers 
of  the  day,  and  was  telling  it  to  some  that  sat  next  him, 
who  could  not  read.  Near  him  Mr.  Dibbins  was  dis* 
puting  on  the  old  subject  of  religion  with  a  Jew  pedlar, 
over  the  table,  while  the  president  vainly  knocked  down 
Mr.  Leathersides  for  a  song.  Besides  the  combination 
of  these  voices,  which  I  could  hear  all  together,  and  which 
formed  an  upper  part  to  the  concert,  there  were  several 
others  playing  under  parts  by  themselves,  and  endeavor¬ 
ing  to  fasten  on  some  luckless  neighbor’s  ear,  who  was 
himself  bent  upon  the  same  design  against  some  other. 

We  have  often  heard  of  the  speech  of  a  corporation, 
and  this  induced  me  to  transcribe  a  speech  of  this  club, 
taken  in  short  hand,  word  for  word,  as  it  was  spoken  by 
every  member  of  the  company.  It  may  be  necessary  to 
observe,  that  the  man  who  told  of  the  ghost  had  the  loud¬ 
est  voice  and  the  longest  story  to  tell,  so  that  his  con¬ 
tinuing  narrative  filled  every  chasm  in  the  conversation. 

“  So,  sir,  d’ye  perceive  me,  the  ghost  giving  three  loud 
raps  at  the  bed-post”  —  “  Says  my  lord  to  me,  My  dear 
Smokeum,  you  know  there  is  no  man  upon  the  face  of 
the  yearth  for  whom  I  have  so  high”  —  “A  damnable 
false  heretical  opinion  of  all  sound  doctrine  and  good 
learning  ;  for  I  ’ll  tell  it  aloud,  and  spare  not,  that”  —  “  Si¬ 
lence  for  a  song;  Mr.  Leathersides  for  a  song”  —  As  I 
was  walking  upon  the  highway,  I  met  a  young  damsel”  — 
u  Then  what  brings  you  here  ?  says  the  parson  to  the 
ghost”  —  “  Sanconiathon,  Manetho,  and  Berosus”  —  “The 


I 


ESSAYS. 


387 


whole  way  from  Islington  turnpike  to  Dog-house  bar”  - 
*  Dam” — “  As  for  Abel  Drugger,  sir,  lie ’s  damn’d  low  in 
it ;  my  prentice  boy  has  more  of  the  gentleman  than  he” 

—  “  For  murder  will  out  one  time  or  another  ;  and  none 
but  a  ghost,  you  know,  gentlemen,  can” —  “  Damme  if  I 
do  n’t ;  for  my  friend,  whom  you  know,  gentlemen,  and 
who  is  a  parliament  man,  a  man  of  consequence,  a  dear 
honest  creature,  to  be  sure  ;  we  were  laughing  last  night 
at”  —  “  Death  and  damnation  upon  all  his  posterity  by 
simply  barely  tasting” —  “  Sour  grapes,  as  the  fox  said 
once  when  he  could  not  reach  them ;  and  I  ’ll,  I  ’ll  tell 
you  a  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  burst  your 
sides  with  laughing.  A  fox  once”  —  “  Will  nobody 
listen  to  the  song  ?  ”  —  “  As  I  was  a  walking  upon 
the  highway,  I  met  a  young  damsel  both  buxom  and 
gay” — “No  ghost,  gentlemen,  can  be  murdered;  nor 
did  I  ever  hear  but  of  one  ghost  killed  in  all  my  life, 
and  that  was  stabbed  in  the  belly  with  a  ”  —  “  My 
blood  and  soul  if  I  do  n’t  ”  —  “  Mr.  Bellows-mender  ; 
I  have  the  honor  of  drinking  your  very  good  health’ 

—  “Blast  me  if  I  do” — “Dam”  —  “Blood”  —  “Bugs” 

—  “  Fire  ”  —  “  Whiz  ”  —  «  Blid”  —  “  Tit  ”  —  “  Rat  ” 
■—“Trip”  —  The  rest  all  riot, ^nonsense,  and  rapid  con¬ 
fusion. 

Were  I  to  be  angry  at  men  for  being  fools,  I  could 
here  find  ample  room  for  declamation  ;  but,  alas  !  I  have 
been  a  fool  myself ;  and  why  should  I  be  angry  with  them 
for  being  something  so  natural  to  every  child  of  hu* 
manity  ? 

Fatigued  with  this  society,  I  was  introduced,  the  follow* 
mg  night,  to  a  club  of  fashion.  On  taking  my  place,  i 


588 


ESSAYS. 


found  the  conversation  sufficiently  easy,  and  tolerably 
good-natured  ;  for  my  lord  and  Sir  Paul  were  not  yet  ar¬ 
rived.  I  now  thought  myself  completely  fitted,  and 
resolving  to  seek  no  farther,  determined  to  take  up  my 
residence  here  for  the  winter :  while  my  temper  began 
to  open  insensibly  to  the  cheerfulness  I  saw  diffused  on 
every  face  in  the  room :  but  the  delusion  soon  vanished, 
when  the  waiter  came  to  apprize  us  that  his  lordship  and 
Sir  Paul  were  just  arrived. 

From  this  moment  all  our  felicity  was  at  an  end ;  our 
new  guests  bustled  into  the  room,  and  took  their  seats  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  Adieu  now  all  confidence ;  every 
creature  strove  who  should  most  recommend  himself  to 
our  members  of  distinction.  Each  seemed  quite  regard¬ 
less  of  pleasing  any  but  our  new  guests;  and  what  before 
wore  the  appearance  of  friendship,  was  now  turned  into 
rivalry. 

Yet  I  could  not  observe  that,  amidst  all  this  flattery  and 
obsequious  attention,  our  great  men  took  any  notice  of 
the  rest  of  the  company.  Their  whole  discourse  was  ad 
dressed  to  each  other.  Sir  Paul  told  his  lordship  a  long 
story  of  Moravia  the  Jew ;  and  his  lordship  gave  Sir 
Paul  a  very  long  account  of  his  new  method  of  manag¬ 
ing  silkworms ;  he  led  him,  and  consequently  the  rest  of 
the  company,  through  all  the  stages  of  feeding,  sunning, 
and  hatching ;  with  an  episode  on  mulberry-trees,  a  di¬ 
gression  upon  grass-seeds,  and  a  long  parenthesis  about 
his  new  postilion.  In  this  manner  we  travelled  on,  wish¬ 
ing  every  story  to  be  the  last ;  but  all  in  vain ;  — 


“Ilills  over  hills,  and  Alps  on  alps  arose.” 


ESSAYS. 


389 


The  last  club  in  which  I  was  enrolled  a  member,  wag 
a  society  of  moral  philosophers,  as  they  called  them¬ 
selves,  who  assembled  twice  a  week,  in  order  to  show  the 
absurdity  ot  the  present  mode  of  religion,  and  establish 
a  new  one  in  its  stead. 

I  found  the  members  very  warmly  disputing  when  I 
arrired;  not  indeed  about  religion  or  ethics,  but  about 
who  had  neglected  to  lay  down  his  preliminary  six¬ 
pence  upon  entering  the  room.  The  president  swore 
that  he  had  laid  his  own  down,  and  so  swore  all  the  com¬ 
pany. 

During  this  contest,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  observing 
the  laws,  and  also  the  members,  of  the  society.  The 
president,  who  had  been,  as  I  was  told,  lately  a  bankrupt, 
was  a  tall,  pale  figure,  with  a  long  black  wig ;  the  next  to 
him  was  dressed  in  a  large  white  wig,  and  a  black  cra¬ 
vat;  a  third,  by  the  brownness  of  his  complexion  seemed 
a  native  of  Jamaica;  and  a  fourth,  by  his  hue,  appeared 
to  be  a  blacksmith.  But  their  rules  will  give  the  most 
just  idea  of  their  learning  and  principles. 

“I.  We,  being  a  laudable  society  of  moral  philosophers, 
intend  to  dispute  twice  a  week  about  religion  and  priest¬ 
craft  ;  leaving  behind  us  old  wives’  tales,  and  following 
good  learning  and  sound  sense ;  and  if  so  be,  that  any 
other  persons  has  a  mind  to  be  of  the  society,  they  shall 
be  entitled  so  to  do,  upon  paying  the  sum  of  three  shil¬ 
lings,  to  be  spent  by#the  company  in  punch. 

“II.  That  no  member  get  drunk  before  nine  of  the 
clock,  upon  pain  of  forfeiting  three-pence,  to  be  spent  by 
the  company  in  punch. 

“III.  That  as  members  are  sometimes  apt  to  go  away 

33* 


390 


ESSAYS. 


without  paying,  every  person  shall  pay  sixpence  upon 
his  entering  the  room  ;  and  all  disputes  shall  be  settled 
by  a  majority ;  and  all  fines  shall  be  paid  in  punch. 

“  IV.  That  sixpence  shall  be  every  night  given  to  the 
•  president,  in  order  to  buy  books  of  learning  for  the  good 
of  the  society ;  the  president  has  already  put  himself  to 
a  good  deal  of  expense  in  buying  books  for  the  club ;  par¬ 
ticularly  the  works  of  Tully,  Socrates,  Cicero,  which  hp 
will  soon  read  to  the  society. 

“  V.  All  them  who  brings  a  new  argument  against  re 
ligion,  and  who,  being  a  philosopher,  and  a  man  of  learn¬ 
ing,  as  the  rest  of  us  is,  shall  be  admitted  to  the  freedom 
of  the  society,  upon  paying  sixpence  only,  to  be  spent  in 
punch. 

“VI.  Whenever  we  are  to  have  an  extraordinary 
meeting,  it  shall  be  advertised  by  some  outlandish  name 
in  the  newspapers. 

“  Sacjnders  Mac  Wild,  President. 

Anthony  Blewit,  Vice  President, 

his  f  mark. 

William  Turpin,  Secretary.” 


ON  THE  POLICY  OE  CONCEALING  OUR  WANTS,  OR 

POVERTY. 

It  is  usually  said  by  grammarians,  that  the  use  of  lan¬ 
guage  is  to  express  our  wants  and  desires ;  but  men  who 
know  the  world,  hold,  and  I  think  with  some  show  of 
reason,  that  he  who  best  knows  how  to  keep  his  necessi¬ 
ties  private,  is  the  most  likely  person  to  have  them  re- 


ESSAYS. 


391 


Pressed  ;  and  that  the  true  use  of  speech  is  not  so  much 
to  express  our  wants  as  to  conceal  them. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  mankind 
generally  confer  their  favors,  there  appears  something 
so  attractive  in  riches,  that  the  large  heap  generally  col¬ 
lects  from  the  smaller ;  and  the  poor  find  as  much 
pleasure  in  increasing  the  enormous  mass  of  the  rich, 
as  the  miser,  who  owns  it,  sees  happiness  in  its  in 
crease.  Nor  is  there  anything  in  this  repugnant  to  the 
laws  of  humanity.  Seneca  himself  allows,  that,  in  con¬ 
ferring  benefits,  the  present  should  always  be  suited  to 
the  dignity  of  the  receiver.  Thus  the  rich  receive  large 
presents,  and  are  thanked  for  accepting  them.  Men  of 
middling  stations  are  obliged  to  be  content  with  presents 
something  less  ;  while  the  beggar,  who  may  be  truly  sak 
to  want  indeed,  is  well  paid  if  a  farthing  rewards  his 
warmest  solicitations. 

Every  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  has  had  his 
ups  and  downs  in  life,  as  the  expression  is,  must  have  fre¬ 
quently  experienced  the  truth  of  this  doctrine ;  and  must 
know,  that  to  have  much,  or  to  seem  to  have  it,  is  the 
only  way  to  have  more.  Ovid  finely  compares  a  man  of 
broken  fortune  to  a  falling  column  ;  the  lower  it  sinks,  the 
greater  weight  is  it  obliged  to  sustain.  Thus,  when  a 
man’s  circumstances  are  such  that  he  has  no  occasion  to 
borrow,  he  finds  numbers  willing  to  lend  him ;  but  should 
his  wants  be  such,  that  he  sues  for  a  trifle,  it  is  two  to  one 
whether  he  may  be  trusted  with  the  smallest  sum.  A 
certain  young  fellow,  whom  I  knew,  whenever  he  had  oc« 
casion  to  ask  his  friend  for  a  guinea,  used  to  prelude  his 
request  as  if  he  wanted  two  hundred ;  and  talked  so 


392 


ESSAYS. 


familiarly  of  large  sums,  that  none  could  ever  think  he 
wanted  a  small  one.  The  same  gentleman,  whenever  he 
wanted  credit  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  always  made  the  pro¬ 
posal  in  a  laced  coat ;  for  he  found,  by  experience,  that  if 
Le  appeared  shabby  on  these  occasions,  his  tailor  had 
taken  an  oath  against  trusting,  or,  what  was  every  whit 
as  bad,  his  foreman  was  out  of  the  way,  and  would  not  be 
at  home  for  some  time. 

There  can  be  no  inducement  to  reveal  our  wants,  except 
to  find  pity,  and  by  this  means  relief ;  but  before  a  poor 
*ian  opens  his  mind  in  such  circumstances,  he  should  first 
consider  whether  he  is  contented  to  lose  the  esteem  of  the 
person  he  solicits,  and  whether  he  is  willing  to  give  up 
friendship  to  excite  compassion.  Pity  and  friendship  are 
passions  incompatible  with  each  other ;  and  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  that  both  can  reside  in  any  breast,  for  the  smallest 
space,  without  impairing  each  other.  Friendship  is  made 
up  of  esteem  and  pleasure ;  pity  is  composed  of  sorrow 
and  contempt :  the  mind  may,  for  some  time,  fluctuate 
between  them,  but  it  can  never  entertain  both  at  once. 

In  fac  t,  pity,  though  it  may  often  relieve,  is  but,  at  best, 
a  short-lived  passion,  and  seldom  affords  distress  more 
than  transitory  assistance;  with  some  it  scarce  lasts  from 
the  first  impulse  till  the  hand  can  be  put  into  the  pocket; 
with  others  it  may  continue  for  twice  that  space ;  and  on 
some  o 1  *-  ctraordinary  sensibility,  I  have  seen  it  operate 
for  hal  hour  together ;  but  still,  last  as  it  may,  it  gen¬ 
erally  produces  but  beggarly  effects,  and  where,  from  this 
motive,  we  give  five  farthings,  from  others  we  give 
pounds :  whatever  be  our  feelings  from  the  first  impulse 
of  distress,  when  the  same  distress  solicits  a  second  time 


ESSAYS. 


393 


we  then  feel  with  diminished  sensibility;  and,  like  the 
repetition  of  an  echo,  every  stroke  becomes  weaker ;  till, 
at  last,  our  sensations  lose  all  mixture  of  sorrc  v,  and  de¬ 
generate  into  downright  contempt. 

These  speculations  bring  to  my  mind  the  fate  of  a  very 
good-natured  fellow  who  is  now  no  more.  He  was  bred 
in  a  counting-house,  and  his  father  dying  just  as  lie  was 
out  of  his  time,  left  him  a  handsome  fortune,  and  many 
friends  to  advise  with.  The  restraint  in  which  my  "friend 
had  been  brought  up,  had  thrown  a  gloom  upon  his  temper, 
which  some  regarded  as  prudence ;  and,  from  such  con¬ 
siderations,  he  had  every  day  repeated  offers  of  friend¬ 
ship.  feuch  as  had  money,  were  ready  to  offer  him  their 
assistance  that  way ;  and  they  who  had  daughters,  fre¬ 
quently,  in  the  warmth  of  affection,  advised  him  to  marry. 
My  friend,  however,  was  in  good  circumstances ;  he 
wanted  neither  their  money,  friends,  nor  a  wife  ;  and 
therefore  modestly  declined  their  proposals. 

Some  errors,  however,  in  the  management  of  his  af¬ 
fairs,  and  several  losses  in  trade,  soon  brought  him  to  a 
different  way  of  thinking ;  and  he  at  last  considered,  that 
it  was  his  best  way  10  let  his  friends  know  that  their  of¬ 
fers  were  at  length  acceptable.  His  first  address  was  to 
a  scrivener,  who  had  formerly  made  him  frequent  offers 
of  money  and  friendship,  at  a  time  when,  perhaps,  he 
knew  those  offers  would  have  been  refused.  As  a  man, 
therefore,  confident  of  not  being  refused,  he  requested  the 
use  of  a  hundred  guineas  for  a  few  days,  as  he  just  then 
had  occasion  for  money.  “And  pray,  sir,”  replied  the 
scrivener.  “  do  you  want  all  this  money?”  —  “Want  it, 
sii  !”  savs  the  other:  “if  T  did  not  want  it  T  should  not 


394 


ESSAYS. 


have  asked  it.”  —  “I  am  sorry  for  that”  says  the  fricmd, 
“for  those  who  want  money  when  they  borrow,  will 
always  want  money  when  they  should  come  to  pay.  To 
say  the  truth,  sir,  money  is  money  now ;  and  I  believe  it 
is  all  sunk  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  for  my  part ;  he  that 
has  got  a  little,  is  a  fool  if  he  does  not  keep  what  he  ban 
got.” 

Not  quite  disconcerted  by  this  refusal,  our  adventurei 
vas  resolved  to  try  another,  who  he  knew  was  the  very 
best  friend  he  had  in  the  world.  The  gentleman  whom 
he  now  addressed,  received  his  proposal  with  all  the  affa¬ 
bility  that  could  be  expected  from  generous  friendship. 
‘  Let  me  see,  you  want  a  hundred  guineas :  and  pray, 
lear  Jack, would  not  fifty  answer?”- — “If  you  have  but 
Afty  to  spare,  sir,  I  must  be  contented.” — “  Fifty  to  spare! 
I  do  not  say  that,  for  I  believe  I  have  but  twenty  about 
me*  ’ —  “  Then  I  must  borrow  the  other  thirty  from  some 
other  friend.”  —  “  And  pray,”  replied  the  friend,  “  would 
it  not  be  the  best  way  to  borrow  the  whole  money  from 
that  other  friend,  and  then  one  note  will  serve  for  all,  you 
know  ?  Tou  know,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  need  make  no 
ceremony  with  me  at  any  time;  you  know,  I’m  your 
friend;  and  when  you  choose  a  bit  of  dinner  or  so  — 
You,  Lorn,  see  the  gentleman  down.  You  won’t  for¬ 
get  to  dine  with  us  now  and  then.  Your  very  humble 
servant.” 

Distressed,  but  not  discouraged,  at  this  treatment,  ho 
was  at  last  resolved  to  find  that  assistance  from  love, 
which  he  could  not  have  from  friendship.  A  young  lady, 
a  distant  relation  by  the  mother’s  side,  had  a  fortune  in 
ber  own  hands ;  and,  as  she  had  already  made  all  the 


ESSAYS. 


395 


advances  that  her  sex’s  modesty  would  permit,  he  made 
his  proposal  with  confidence.  He  soon,  however,  per¬ 
ceived  that  no  bankrupt  ever  found  the  fair  one  kind. 
She  had  lately  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  another,  who 
had  more  money,  and  the  whole  neighborhood  thought  it 
would  be  a  match. 

Every  day  now  began  to  strip  my  poor  friend  of  his 
former  finery ;  his  clothes  flew,  piece  by  piece,  to  tin. 
pawnbroker’s,  and  he  seemed  at  length  equipped  in  tin 
genuine  livery  of  misfortune.  But  still  he  thought  him 
self  secure  from  actual  necessity ;  the  numberless  invita 
tions  he  had  received  to  dine,  even  after  his  losses,  wert 
yet  unanswered  ;  he  was  therefore  nowr  resolved  to  accept 
of  a  dinner,  because  he  wanted  one ;  and  in  this  manner 
he  actually  lived  among  his  friends  a  whole  week  without 
being  openly  affronted.  The  last  place  I  saw  him  in  was 
at  a  reverend  divine’s.  He  had,  as  he  fancied,  just  nicked 
the  time  of  dinner,  for  he  came  in  as  the  cloth  was  lay¬ 
ing*  He  took  a  chair,  without  being  desired,  and  talked 
for  some  time  without  being  attended  to.  He  assured 
the  company,  that  nothing  procured  so  good  an  appetite 
as  a  walk  in  the  Park,  where  he  had  been  that  morning. 
He  went  on,  and  praised  the  figure  of  the  damask  table¬ 
cloth  ;  talked  of  a  feast  where  he  had  been  the  day  be¬ 
fore,  but  that  the  venison  was  over-done.  But  all  this 
procured  him  no  invitation :  finding,  therefore,  the  gen¬ 
tleman  of  the  house  insensible  to  all  his  fetches,  he 
thought  proper,  at  last  to  retire,  and  mend  his  appetite  by 
a  second  walk  in  the  Park. 

You  their,  O  ye  beggars  of  my  acquaintance,  whethei 
in  rags  or  lace,  whether  in  Kent  street  or  the  Mall 


396 


ESSAYS. 


whether  at  the  Smyrna  or  St.  Giles’s,  might  I  v  per 
mitted  to  advise  as  a  friend,  never  seem  to  wswrc  the 
tavor  which  you  solicit.  Apply  to  every  passion  but 
human  pity  for  redress :  you  may  find  permanent  relief 
from  vanity,  from  self-interest,  or  from  avarice,  but  from 
oimpassion  never.  The  very  eloquence  of  a  poor  ma« 
u  disgusting ;  and  that  mouth  which  is  opened  even  by 
vi  tsdom,  is  seldom  expected  to  close  without  the  horrors 
Cl  a  petition. 

To  ward  off  the  gripe  of  poverty,  you  must  pretend  to 
De  a  stranger  to  her,  and  she  will  at  least  use  you  with 
ceremony.  If  you  be  caught  dining  upon  a  half-penny 
porringer  of  peas-soup  and  potatoes,  praise  the  whole¬ 
someness  of  your  frugal  repast.  You  may  observe  that 
Dr.  Cheyne  has  prescribed  peas-broth  for  the  gravel ; 
hint  that  you  are  not  one  of  those  who  are  always  making 
a  deity  of  your  belly.  If,  again,  you  are  obliged  to  wear 
a  flimsy  stuff  in  the  midst  of  winter,  be  the  first  to  re¬ 
mark,  that  stuffs  are  very  much  worn  at  Paris ;  or,  if 
there  be  found  any  irreparable  defects  in  any  part  of 
your  equipage,  which  cannot  be  concealed  by  all  the  arts 
of  sitting  cross-legged,  coaxing,  or  darning,  say,  that 
neither  you  nor  Sir  Samson  Gideon  were  ever  very  fond 
of  dress.  If  you  be  a  philosopher,  hint  that  Plato  or 
Seneca  are  the  tailors  you  choose  to  employ  ;  assure  the 
company  that  man  ought  to  be  content  with  a  bare  cover¬ 
ing,  since  what  now  is  so  much  his  pride,  was  formerly 
his  shame.  In  short,  however  caught,  never  give  out ; 
but  ascribe  to  the  frugality  of  your  disposition  what  othere 
might  be  apt  to  attribute  to  the  narrowness  of  your  cir¬ 
cumstances.  To  be  poor,  and  to  seem  poor,  is  a  certain 


ESSAYS. 


397 


method  never  to  rise ;  pride  in  the  great  is  hateful ;  it 
the  wise  it  is  ridiculous  ;  but  beggarly  pride  is  a  rational 
vanity,  which  I  have  been  taught  to  applaud  and  excuse. 


ON  GENEROSITY  AND  JUSTICE. 

Lysippus  is  a  man  whose  greatness  of  soul  the  winds 
world  admires.  His  generosity  is  such,  that  it  prevents 
a  demand,  and  saves  the  receiver  the  confusion  of  a  re¬ 
quest.  His  liberality  also  does  not  oblige  more  by  its 
greatness,  than  by  his  inimitable  grace  in  giving.  Some¬ 
times  he  even  distributes  his  bounties  to  strangers,  and 
has  been  known  to  do  good  offices  to  those  who  professed 
themselves  his  enemies.  All  the  world  are  unanimous  in 
the  praise  of  his  generosity :  there  is  only  one  sort  of 
people  who  complain  of  his  conduct.  Lysippus  does  not 
pay  his  debts. 

It  is  no  difficult  matter  to  account  for  a  conduct  so 
seemingly  incompatible  with  itself.  There  is  greatness 
in  being  generous,  and  there  is  only  simple  justice  in 
satisfying  creditors.  Generosity  is  the  part  of  a  soul 
raised  above  the  vulgar.  There  is  in  it  something  of 
what  we  admire  in  heroes,  and  praise  with  a  degree  ot 
rapture.  Justice,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  mechanic  virtue, 
only  fit  for  tradesmen,  and  what  is  practised  by  every 
broker  in  Change-alley. 

In  paying  his  debts  a  man  barely  does  his  duty,  and  it 
is  an  action  attended  with  no  sort  of  glory.  Should  Ly 
sippus  satisfy  his  creditors,  who  would  be  at  the  pama  at 

34 


398 


ESSAYS. 


telling  it  to  the  world  ?  Generosity  is  a  virtue  of  a  very 
different  complexion.  It  is  raised  above  duty,  and  from 
its  elevation  attracts  the  attention  and  the  praises  of  us 
little  mortals  below. 

In  this  manner  do  men  generally  reason  upon  justice 
and  generosity.  The  first  is  despised,  though  a  virtue 
essential  to  the  good  of  society,  and  the  other  attracts  our 
esteem,  which  too  frequently  proceeds  from  an  impetuosity 
of  temper,  rather  directed  by  vanity  than  reason.  Ly¬ 
sippus  is  told  that  his  banker  asks  a  debt  of  forty  pounds, 
and  that  a  distressed  acquaintance  petitions  for  the  same 
sum.  He  gives  it  without  hesitating  to  the  latter,  for  he 
demands  as  a  favor  what  the  former  requires  as  a  debt. 

Mankind  in  general  are  not  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  the  import  of  the  word  justice  :  it  is  commonly  be¬ 
lieved  to  consist  only  in  a  performance  of  those  duties  tc 
which  the  laws  of  society  can  oblige  us.  This  I  allow  is 
sometimes  the  import  of  the  word,  and  in  this  sense 
justice  is  distinguished  from  equity;  but  there  is  a  justice 
still  more  extensive,  and  which  can  be  shown  to  embrace 
all  the  virtues  united. 

Justice  may  be  defined,  that  virtue  which  impels  us  to 
give  to  every  person  what  is  his  due.  In  this  extended 
sense  of  the  word,  it  comprehends  the  practice  of  every* 
virtue  which  reason  prescribes,  or  society  should  expect. 
Our  duty  to  our  Maker,  to  each  other,  and  to  ourselves, 
ore  fully  answered,  if  we  give  them  what  we  owe  them. 
Thus  justice,  properly  speaking,  is  the  only  virtue ;  and 
sJl  the  rest  have  their  origin  in  it. 

The  qualities  of  candor,  fortitude,  charity,  and  gene¬ 
rosity,  for  instance,  are  not  in  their  own  nature  virtues 


ESSAYS. 


399 


and  if  ever  they  deserve  the  title,  it  is  owing  only  to  jus¬ 
tice,  which  impels  and  directs  them.  Without  such  a 
moderator,  candor  might  become  indiscretion,  fortitude 
obstinacy,  charity  imprudence,  and  generosity  mistaken 
profusion. 

A  disinterested  action,  if  it  be  not  conducted  by  justice, 
is,  at  best,  indifferent  in  its  nature,  and  not  unfrequently 
even  turns  to  vice.  The  expenses  of  society,  of  presents, 
of  entertainments,  and  the  other  helps  to  cheerfulness,  are 
actions  merely  indifferent,  when  not  repugnant  to  a  better 
method  of  disposing  of  our  superfluities ;  but  they  become 
vicious  when  they  obstruct  or  exhaust  our  abilities  from 
a  more  virtuous  disposition  of  our  circumstances. 

True  generosity  is  a  duty  as  indispensably  necessary  a9 
those  imposed  upon  us  by  law.  It  is  a  rule  imposed  on  us 
by  reason,  which  should  be  the  sovereign  law  of  a  ration¬ 
al  being.  But  this  generosity  does  not  consist  in  obeying 
every  impulse  of  humanity,  in  following  blind  passion  for 
our  guide,  and  impairing  our  circumstances  by  present 
benefactions,  so  as  to  render  us  incapable  of  future  ones. 

Misers  are  generally  characterized  as  men  without 
honor,  or  without  humanity,  who  live  only  to  accumulate, 
and  to  this  passion  sacrifice  every  other  happiness.  They 
have  been  described  as  madmen,  who,  in  the  midst  of 
abundance,  banish  every  pleasure,  and  make,  from  imagi¬ 
nary  wants,  real  necessities.  But  few,  very  few,  cor 
respond  to  this  exaggerated  picture ;  and,  perhaps,  there 
is  not  one  in  whom  all  these  circumstances  are  fount! 
united.  Instead  of  this,  we  find  the  sober  and  the  indus¬ 
trious  branded  by  the  vain  and  the  idle  with  this  odious 
appellation  ;  men  who,  by  frugality  and  labor,  raise  them 


400 


ESSAYS. 


selves  above  their  equals,  and  contribute  their  share  of 
industry  to  the  common  stock. 

Whatever  the  vain  or  the  ignorant  may  say,  well  were 
it  tor  society,  had  we  more  of  these  characters  amongst 
us.  In  general  these  close  men  are  found  at  last  the  true 
benefactors  of  society.  With  an  avaricious  man  we  sel¬ 
dom  lose  in  our  dealings,  but  too  frequently  in  our  com¬ 
merce  with  prodigality. 

A  French  priest,  whose  name  was  Godinot,  went  for  a 
long  time  by  the  name  of  the  Griper.  He  refused  to  re¬ 
lieve  the  most  apparent  wretchedness,  and  by  a  skilful 
management  of  his  vineyard,  had  the  good  fortune  to  ac¬ 
quire  immense  sums  of  money.  The  inhabitants  of 
Rheirns,  who  were  his  fellow-citizens,  detested  him  ;  and 
the  populace,  who  seldom  love  a  miser,  wherever  he  went, 
followed  him  with  shouts  of  contempt.  He  still,  however, 
continued  his  former  simplicity  of  life,  his  amazing  and 
unremitted  frugality.  He  had  long  perceived  the  wants 
of'  the  poor  in  the  city,  particularly  in  having  no  water 
but  what  they  were  obliged  to  buy  at  an  advanced  price  ; 
wherefore,  that  whole  fortune  which  he  had  been  amass¬ 
ing,  he  laid  out  in  an  aqueduct,  by  which  he  did  the  poor 
more  useful  and  lasting  service,  than  if  he  had  dis¬ 
tributed  his  whole  income  in  charity  every  day  at  his 
door. 

Among  men  long  conversant  with  books,  we  too  fre¬ 
quently  find  those  misplaced  virtues,  of  which  I  have 
been  now  complaining.  We  find  the  studious  animated 
with  a  strong  passion  for  the  great  virtues,  as  they  are 
mistakingly  called,  and  utterly  forgetful  of  the  ordinary 
anes  The  declamations  of  philosophy  are  generally 


ESSAYS. 


401 


rather  exhausted  on  those  supererogatory  duties,  than  on 
such  as  are  indispensably  necessary.  A  man,  therefore, 
who  has  taken  his  ideas  of  mankind  from  study  alone, 
generally  comes  into  the  world  with  a  heart  melting  at 
every  fictitious  distress.  Thus  he  is  induced,  by  misplac¬ 
ed  liberality,  to  put  himself  into  the  indigent  circumstan¬ 
ces  of  the  person  he  relieves. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  the  advice  of  one  of 
the  ancients,  to  a  young  man  whom  he  saw  giving  away 
all  his  substance  to  pretended  distress.  *  It  is  possible, 
that  the  person  you  relieve  maybe  an  honest  man;  and 
I  know  that  you,  who  relieve  him,  are  such.  You  see 
then,  by  your  generosity,  that  you  rob  a  man  who  is  cer¬ 
tainly  deserving,  to  bestow  it  on  one  who  may  possibly  be 
a  rogue  ;  and,  while  you  are  unjust  in  rewarding  uncer¬ 
tain  merit,  you  are  doubly  guilty  by  stripping  yourself.” 


ON  THE  EDUCATION  OF  YOUTH. 

As  few  subjects  are  more  interesting  to  society,  so  few 
have  been  more  frequently  written  upon,  than  the  educa¬ 
tion  of  youth.  Yet  it  is  a  little  surprising  that  it  has 
been  treated  almost  by  all  in  a  declamatory  manner. 
They  have  insisted  largely  on  the  advantages  that  result 
from  it,  both  to  individuals  and  to  society  ;  and  have  ex¬ 
patiated  in  the  praise  of  what  none  have  ever  been  so 
hardy  as  to  call  in  question. 

Instead  of  giving  us  fine  but  empty  harangues  upon 
this  subject,  instead  of  indulging  each  his  particular  And 


34* 


402 


ESSAYS. 


whimsical  systems,  it  had  been  much  better  if  the  writer! 
on  this  subject  had  treated  it  in  a  more  scientific  manner 
repressed  all  the  sallies  of  imagination,  and  given  us  the 
result  of  their  observations  with  didactic  simplicity.  Up¬ 
on  this  subject,  the  smallest  errors  are  of  the  most  dan¬ 
gerous  consequence,  and  the  author  should  venture  the 
imputation  of  stupidity  upon  a  topic,  where  his  slightest 
deviations  may  tend  to  injure  the  rising  generation.  How¬ 
ever,  such  are  the  whimsical  and  erroneous  production? 
written  upon  this  subject.  Their  authors  have  studied  to 
be  uncommon,  not  to  be  just ;  and  at  present,  we  want  a 
treatise  upon  education,  not  to  tell  us  anything  new,  but 
to  explode  the  errors  which  have  been  introduced  by  the 
admirers  of  novelty.  It  is  in  this  manner  books  become 
numerous ;  a  desire  of  novelty  produces  a  book,  and 
other  books  are  required  to  destroy  the  former. 

I  shall,  therefore,  throw  out  a  few  thoughts  upon  this 
subject,  which,  though  known,  have  not  been  attended  to 
by  others ;  and  shall  dismiss  all  attempts  to  please,  while 
I  study  only  instruction. 

The  manner  in  which  our  youth  of  London  are  at  pres¬ 
ent  educated,  is,  some  in  free-schools  in  the  city,  but  the 
far  greater  number  in  boarding-schools  about  town.  The 
parent  justly  consults  the  health  of  his  child  and  finds 
an  education  in  the  country  tends  to  promote  this,  much 
more  than  a  continuance  in  town.  Thus  far  he  is  right ; 
if  there  were  a  possibility  of  having  even  our  free-schools 
kept  a  little  out  of  town,  it  would  certainly  conduce  to  the 
health  and  vigor  of,  perhaps,  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body. 
It  may  be  thought  whimsical,  but  it  is  truth  ;  I  have  found 
by  experience,  that  they,  who  have  spent  all  their  live.* 


ESSAYS. 


403 


in  cities,  contract  not  only  an  effeminacy  of  habit,  bui 
even  of  thinking. 

But  when  I  have  said  that  the  boarding-schools  are 
preferable  to  free-scliools,  as  being  in  the  country,  this  ia 
certainly  the  only  advantage  I  can  allow  them :  otherwise 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive  the  ignorance  of  those  who 
take  upon  them  the  important  trust  of  education.  Js  any 
man  unfit  for  any  of  the  professions,  he  finds  his  last  re* 
source  in  setting  up  a  school.  Do  any  become  bankrupts 
in  trade,  they  still  set  up  a  boarding-school,  and  drive  a 
trade  this  way,  when  all  others  fail ;  nay,  I  have  been 
told  of  butchers  and  barbers,  who  have  turned  school¬ 
masters  ;  and,  more  surprising  still,  made  fortunes  in  their 
new  profession. 

Could  we  think  ourselves  in  a  country  of  civilized 
people,  could  it  be  conceived  that  we  have  any  regard  for 
posterity,  when  such  are  permitted  to  take  the  charge  of 
the  morals,  genius,  and  health,  of  those  dear  little  pledges 
who  may  one  day  be  the  guardians  of  the  liberties  of 
Europe ;  and  who  may  serve  as  the  honor  and  bulwark 
of  their  aged  parents  ?  The  care  of  our  children,  is  it 
below  the  state  ?  Is’  it  fit  to  indulge  the  caprice  of  the 
ignorant  with  the  disposal  of  their  children  in  this  partic 
ular  ?  For  the  state  to  take  the  charge  of  all  its  child 
ren,  as  in  Persia  or  Sparta,  might  at  present  be  inconve¬ 
nient  ;  but  surely,  with  great  ease,  it  might  cast  an  eye 
to  their  instructors.  Of  all  professions  in  society,  I  do 
not  know  a  more  useful,  or  a  more  honorable  one,  than  a 
schoolmaster;  at  the  same  time  that  I  do  not  see  any 
more  generally  despised,  or  whose  talents  are  so  ill  re¬ 
warded, 


404 


ESSAYS. 


Were  the  salaries  of  schoolmasters  to  be  augmented 
fi  om  a  diminution  of  useless  sinecures,  how  might  it  turn 
to  the  advantage  of  this  people !  a  people  whom,  without 
flattery,  I  may,  in  other  respects,  term  the  wisest  and 
greatest  upon  earth.  But  while  I  would  reward  the  de- 
serving,  I  would  dismiss  those  utterly  unqualified  foi 
their  employment ;  in  short,  I  would  make  the  business 
of  a  schoolmaster  every  way  more  respectable  by  in¬ 
creasing  their  salaries,  and  admitting  only  men  of  propel 
abilities. 

It  is  true  we  have  schoolmasters  appointed,  and  they 
have  some  small  salaries  ;  but  where  at  present  there  is 
only  one  schoolmaster  appointed,  there  should  at  least  be 
two  ;  and  wherever  the  salary  is  at  present  twenty  pounds, 
it  should  be  a  hundred.  Do  we  give  immoderate  bene¬ 
fices  to  those  who  instruct  ourselves,  and  shall  we  deny 
even  subsistence  to  those  who  instruct  our  children  ? 
Every  member  of  society  should  be  paid  in  proportion 
as  he  is  necessary  ;  and  I  will  be  bold  enough  to  say, 
that  schoolmasters  in  a  state  are  more  necessary  than 
clergymen,  as  children  stand  in  more  need  of  instruction 
than  their  parents. 

But  instead  of  this,  as  I  have  already  observed,  we 
send  them  to  board  in  the  country,  to  the  most  ignorant 
set  of  men  that  can  be  imagined.  But,  lest  the  ignorance 
of  the  master  be  not  sufficient,  the  child  is  generally  con¬ 
signed  to  the  usher.  This  is  commonly  some  poor  needy 
animal,  little  superior  to  a  footman  either  in  learning  or 
npirit,  invited  to  his  place  by  an  advertisement,  and  kept 
there  merely  from  his  being  of  a  complying  disposition, 
and  making  the  children  fond  of  him.  ‘  You  give  your 


ESSAYS. 


405 


child  to  be  educated  to  a  slave/  says  a  philosopher  to  a 
rich  man  ;  ‘  instead  of  one  slave  you  will  then  have  two.’ 

It  were  well,  however,  if  parents  upon  fixing  their 
children  in  one  of  these  houses,  would  examine  the  abili 
ties  of  the  usher,  as  well  as  the  master ;  for  whatever 
tiiey  are  told  to  the  contrary,  the  usher  is  generally  the 
person  most  employed  in  their  education.  If,  then,  a 
gentleman,  upon  putting  his  son  to  one  of  these  houses, 
sees  the  usher  disregarded  by  the  master,  he  may  depend 
upon  it,  that  he  is  equally  disregarded  by  the  boys ;  the 
truth  is,  in  spite  of  all  their  endeavors  to  please,  they 
are  generally  the  laughing-stock  of  the  school.  Every 
trick  is  played  upon  the  usher :  the  oddity  of  his  manners, 
his  dress,  or  his  language,  are  a  fund  of  eternal  ridicule ; 
the  master  himself,  now  and  then,  cannot  avoid  joining  in 
the  laugh  ;  and  the  poor  wretch,  eternally  resenting  this 
ill-usage,  seems  to  live  in  a  state  of  war  with  all  the  fam- 
ily.  This  is  a  very  proper  person,  is  it  not,  to  give  chil¬ 
dren  a  relish  for  learning  ?  They  must  esteem  learning 
very  much,  wThen  they  see  its  professors  used  with  such 
little  ceremony !  If  the  usher  be  despised,  the  father 
may  be  assured  that  his  child  will  never  be  properly  in¬ 
structed. 

But  let  me  suppose  that  there  are  some  schools  without 
these  inconveniences,  where  the  masters  and  ushers  are 
men  of  learning,  reputation,  and  assiduity.  If  there  are 
to  be  found  such,  'they  cannot  be  prized  in  a  state  suffi¬ 
ciently.  A  boy  will  learn  more  true  wusdom  in  a  public 
school  in  a  year,  than  by  private  education  in  five.  It  is 
not  from  masters,  but  from  their  equals,  youth  learn  a 
Knowledge  of  the  world;  the  little  tricks  they  play  each 


406 


ESSAYS. 


other,  the  punishment  that  frequently  attends  the  com¬ 
mission,  is  a  just  picture  of  the  great  world ;  and  all  the 
ways  of  men  are  practised  in  a  public  school  in  miniature. 
It  is  true,  a  child  is  early  made  acquainted  with  some 
vices  in  a  school ;  but  it  is  better  to  know  these  when  a 
boy,  than  be  first  taught  them  when  a  man ;  for  their 
novelty  then  may  have  irresistible  charms. 

In  a  public  education,  boys  early  learn  temperance ; 
and  if  the  parents  and  friends  would  give  them  less  money 
upon  their  usual  visits,  it  would  be  much  to  their  advan¬ 
tage  ;  since  it  may  justly  be  said,  that  a  great  part  of  their 
disorders  arise  from  surfeit,  4  plus  occidit  gula  quam  gla¬ 
des.’  And  now  I  am  come  to  the  article  of  health,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  observe,  that  Mr.  Locke  and  some 
others  have  advised  that  children  should  be  inured  to  cold, 
to  fatigue,  and  hardship,  from  their  youth  ;  but  Mr.  Locke 
was  but  an  indifferent  physician.  Habit,  I  grant,  has 
great  influence  over  our  constitutions ;  but  we  have  not 
precise  ideas  upon  this  subject. 

We  know  that  among  savages,  and  even  among  oui 
peasants,  there  are  found  children  born  with  such  consti¬ 
tutions,  that  they  cross  rivers  by  swimming,  endure  cold, 
thirst,  hunger,  and  want  of  sleep,  to  a  surprising  degree  ; 
that  when  they  happen  to  fall  sick,  they  are  cured  with¬ 
out  the  help  of  medicine,  by  nature  alone.  Such  exam¬ 
ples  are  adduced  to  persuade  us  to  imitate  their  manner 
of  education,  and  accustom  ourselves  betimes  to  support 
the  same  fatigues.  But  had  these  gentlemen  considered 
first  how  many  lives  are  lost  in  this  ascetic  practice  ;  had 
they  considered,  that  those  savages  and  peasants  are  gen¬ 
erally  not  so  long  lived  as  they  who  have  ied  a  more 


ESSAYS. 


407 


Indolent  life  ;  that  the  more  laborious  the  life  is,  the  less 
populous  is  the  country  ;  nad  they  considered,  that  what 
physicians  call  the  ‘  stamina  vitas,’  by  fatigue  and  labor 
become  rigid,  and  thus  anticipate  old  age  ;  that  the  num¬ 
ber  who  survive  those  rude  trials,  bears  no  proportion  to 
those  who  die  in  the  experiment ;  had  these  things  been 
properly  considered,  they  would  not  have  thus  extolled 
an  edu  sation  begun  in  fatigue  and  hardships.  Peter  the 
Great,  willing  to  inure  the  children  of  his  seamen  to  a 
life  of  hardship,  ordered  that  they  should  only  drink  sea¬ 
water  ;  but  they  unfortunately  all  died  under  the  tidal. 

But  while  I  would  exclude  all  unnecessary  labors,  yet 
still  I  wTould  recommend  temperance  in  the  highest  de¬ 
gree.  No  luxurious  dishes  with  high  seasoning,  nothing 
given  children  to  force  an  appetite  ;  as  little  sugared  or 
salted  provisions  as  possible,  though  ever  so  pleasing ;  but 
milk,  morning  and  night,  should  be  their  constant  food. 
This  diet  would  make  them  more  healthy  than  any  of 
those  slops  that  are  usually  cooked  by  the  mistress  of  a 
boarding-school ;  besides,  it  corrects  any  consumptive 
habits,  not  unfrequently  found  amongst  the  children  of 
city  parents. 

As  boys  should  be  educated  with  temperance,  so  the 
first  greatest  lesson  that  should  be  taught  them  is  to 
admire  frugality.  It  is  by  the  exercise  of  this  virtue 
alone,  they  can  ever  expect  to  be  useful  members  of  soci¬ 
ety.  It  is  true,  lectures  continually  repeated  upon  this 
subject,  may  make  some  boys,  when  they  grow  up,  run 
into  an  extreme,  and  become  misers  ;  but  it  were  weir, 
had  wre  more  misers  than  we  have  amongst  us.  I  know' 
characters  more  useful  in  society  ;  for  a  man’s  lia\  ing 


J. 


408  ESSAYS. 

a  larger  01  smaller  share  of  money  lying  useless  by  hha 
no  way  injures  the  commonwealth ;  since,  should  every 
miser  now  exhaust  his  stores,  this  might  make  gold  more 
plenty,  but  it  would  not  increase  the  commodities  or  plea¬ 
sures  of  life  ;  they  would  still  remain  as  they  are  at 
present :  it  matters  not,  therefore,  whether  men  are  misers 
or  not,  if  they  be  only  frugal,  laborious,  and  fill  the  station 
they  have  chosen.  If  they  deny  themselves  the  neces¬ 
saries  of  life,  society  is  no  way  injured  by  their  folly. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  romances,  which  praise  young 
men  of  spirit,  who  go  through  a  variety  of  adventures, 
and  at  last  conclude  a  life  of  dissipation,  folly  and  ex¬ 
travagance,  in  riches  and  matrimony,  there  should  be 
some  men  of  wit  employed  to  compose  books  that  might 
equally  interest  the  passions  of  our  youth,  where  such  a 
one  might  be  praised  for  having  resisted  allurements 
when  young,  and  how  he,  at  last,  became  lord  mayor ; 
how  he  wras  married  to  a  lady  of  great  sense,  fortune,  and 
beauty :  to  be  as  explicit  as  possible,  the  old  story  of 
'  Whittington,  were  his  cat  left  out,  might  be  more  service¬ 
able  to  the  tender  mind,  than  either  Tom  Jones,  Joseph 
Andrews,  or  a  hundred  others,  where  frugality  is  the  only 
good  quality  the  hero  is  not  possessed  of.  Were  our 
schoolmasters,  if  any  of  them  have  sense  enough  to  draw 
up  such  a  work,  thus  employed,  it  would  be  much  more 
serviceable  to  their  pupils,  than  all  the  grammars  and 
dictionaries  they  may  publish  these  ten  years. 

Children  should  early  be  instructed  in  the  arts  from 
which  they  may  afterwards  draw  the  greatest  advantages 
When  the  wonders  of  nature  are  never  exposed  to  our 
vie  w,  we  have  no  great  desire  to  become  acquainted  with 


ESSAYS. 


409 


those  parts  of  learning  which  pretend  to  account  for  the 
phenomena.  One  of  the  ancients  complains,  that  as  soon 
as  young  men  have  left  school,  and  are  obliged  to  con¬ 
verse  with  the  world,  they  fancy  themselves  transported 
into  a  new  region.  “Ut,  cum  in  forum  venerint,  existi- 
ment  se  in  alium  terrarum  orbem  delatos.”  We  should 
early,  therefore,  instruct  them  in  the  experiments,  if  I 
may  so  express  it,  of  knowledge,  and  leave  to  maturer 
age  the  accounting  for  the  causes.  But,  instead  of  that, 
when  boys  begin  natural  philosophy  in  colleges,  they  have 
not  the  least  curiosity  for  those  parts  of  the  science  which 
are  proposed  for  their  instruction ;  they  have  never  be¬ 
fore  seen  the  phenomena,  and  consequently  have  no  cu¬ 
riosity  to  learn  the  reasons.  Might  natural  philosophy, 
therefore,  be  made  their  pastime  in  school,  by  this  means 
it  would  in  college  become  their  amusement. 

In  several  of  the  machines  now  in  use,  there  would  be 
ample  field  both  for  instruction  and  amusement ;  the  dif¬ 
ferent  sorts  of  the  phosphorus,  the  artificial  pyrites,  mag¬ 
netism,  electricity,  the  experiments  upon  the  rarefaction 
and  weight  of  the  air,  and  those  upon  elastic  bodies, 
might  employ  their  idle  hours  ;  and  none  should  be  called 
from  play  to  see  such  experiments  but  such  as  thought 
proper.  At  first,  then,  it  would  be  sufficient  if  the  instru¬ 
ments,  and  the  effects  of  their  combination,  were  only 
shown  ;  the  causes  would  be  deferred  to  a  maturer  age, 
or  to  those  times  when  natural  curiosity  prompts  us  to 
discover  the  wonders  of  nature.  Man  is  placed  in  this 
world  as  a  spectator ;  when  he  is  tired  of  wondering  at  all 
the  novelties  about  him,  and  not  till  then,  does  he  desire 

35 


410 


ESSAYS. 


to  be  made  acquainted  with  the  causes  that  create  those 
wonders. 

What  I  have  observed  with  regard  to  natural  philoso 
phy,  I  would  extend  to  every  other  science  whatsoever 
We  should  teach  them  as  many  of  the  facts  as  were  pos¬ 
sible,  and  defer  the  causes  until  they  seemed  of  them¬ 
selves  desirous  of  knowing  them.  A  mind  thus  leaving 
school,  stored  with  all  the  simple  experiences  of  science, 
would  be  the  fittest  in  the  world  for  the  college-course  ; 
and,  though  such  a  youth  might  not  appear  so  bright  or 
so  talkative,  as  those  who  had  learned  the  real  principles 
and  causes  of  some  of  the  sciences,  yet  he  would  make  a 
wiser  man,  and  would  retain  a  more  lasting  passion  tor 
letters,  than  he  who  was  early  burdened  with  the  disa¬ 
greeable  institution  of  effect  and  cause. 

In  history,  such  stories  alone  should  be  laid  before 
them  as  might  catch  the  imagination;  instead  of  this, 
they  are  too  frequently  obliged  to  toil  through  the  four 
empires,  as  they  are  called,  where  their  memories  are 
burdened  by  a  number  of  disgusting  names,  that  destroy 
all  their  future  relish  for  our  best  historians,  who  may  be 
termed  the  truest  teachers  of  wisdom. 

Every  species  of  flattery  should  be  carefully  avoided  : 
a  boy  who  happens  to  say  a  sprightly  thing  is  gent  rally 
applauded  so  much,  that  he  sometimes  continues  a  cox¬ 
comb  all  his  life  after.  He  is  reputed  a  wit  at  four¬ 
teen,  and  becomes  a  blockhead  at  twenty.  Nurses,  foot¬ 
men,  and  such,  should  therefore  be  driven  away  as 
much  as  possible.  I  was  even  going  to  add,  that  the 
mother  herself  should  stifle  her  pleasure  or  her  vanity, 
when  little  master  happens  to  say  a  good  or  a  smart 


ESSAYS. 


411 


thing.  Those  modest,  lubberly  boys,  who  seem  to  want 
spirit,  generally  go  through  their  business  with  more  ease 
to  themselves,  and  more  satisfaction  to  their  instructors. 

There  has,  of  late,  a  gentleman  appeared,  who  thinks 
the  study  of  rhetoric  essential  to  a  perfect  education 
That  bold  male  eloquence,  which  often,  without  pleasing, 
convinces,  is  generally  destroyed  by  such  institutions. 
Convincing  eloquence  is  infinitely  more  serviceable  to  its 
possessor,  than  the  most  florid  harangue,  or  the  most  pa¬ 
thetic  tones,  that  can  be  imagined  ;  and  the  man  who  is 
thoroughly  convinced  himself,  who  understands  his  sub¬ 
ject,  and  the  language  he  speaks  in,  will  be  more  apt  to 
silence  opposition,  than  he  who  studies  the  force  of  his 
periods,  and  fills  our  ears  with  sounds,  while  our  minds 
are  destitute  of  conviction. 

It  was  reckoned  the  fault  of  the  orators  at  the  decline 
of  the  Roman  empire,  when  they  had  been  long  instruct¬ 
ed  by  rhetoricians,  that  their  periods  were  so  harmonious, 
as  that  they  could  be  sung  as  well  as  spoken.  What  a 
ridiculous  figure  must  one  of  these  gentlemen  cut,  thus 
measuring  syllables,  and  weighing  words,  when  he  should 
plead  the  cause  of  his  client !  Two  architects  were 
once  candidates  for  the  building  a  certain  temple  at  Ath¬ 
ens  ;  the  first  harangued  the  crowd  very  learnedly  upon 
the  different  orders  of  architecture,  and  showed  them  in 
what  manner  the  temple  should  be  built ;  the  other,  who 
,  got  up  after  him,  only  observed,  that  what  his  brother 
had  spoken,  he  could  do ;  and  thus  he  at  once  gained  hir 
cause. 

To  teach  men  to  be  orators,  is  little  less  than  to  teact 
them  to  be  poets  ;  and  for  my  part,  I  should  have  tm 


412 


ESSAYS. 


great  a  regard  for  my  child,  to  wish  him  a  manor  only  in 

a  bookseller’s  shop. 

Another  passion  which  the  present  age  is  apt  to  run 
into,  is  to  make  children  learn  all  things  ;  the  languages; 
the  sciences,  music,  the  exercises,  and  painting.  Thus  the 
oliild  soon  becomes  a  talker  in  all,  but  a  master  in  none. 
Ho  thus  acquires  a  superficial  fondness  for  everything, 
and  only  shows  his  ignorance  when  he  attempts  to  exhibit, 
his  skill. 

As  .1  deliver  my  thoughts,  without  method,  or  con 
nection,  so  the  reader  must  not  be  surprised  to  find  nn 
once  more  addressing  schoolmasters  on  the  present  meth¬ 
od  of  teaching  the  learned  languages,  which  is  commonly 
by  literal  translations.  I  would  ask  such,  if  they  were  to 
travel  a  journey,  whether  those  parts  of  the  road  in  which 
they  found  the  greatest  difficulties,  would  not  be  the  most 
strongly  remembered  ?  Boys  who,  if  I  may  continue  the 
allusion,  gallop  through  one  of  the  ancients  with  the  as¬ 
sistance  of  a  translation,  can  have  but  a  very  slight  ac¬ 
quaintance  either  with  the  author  or  his  language.  It  is 
by  the  exercise  of  the  mind  alone  that  a  language  is 
learned;  but  a  literal  translation  on  the  opposite  page, 
leaves  no  exercise  for  the  memory  at  all.  The  boy  will 
aot  be  at  the  fatigue  of  remembering,  when  his  doubts 
aie  at  once  satisfied  by  a  glance  of  the  eye:  whereas, 
were  every  word  to  be  sought  from  a  dictionary,  the 
learner  would  attempt  to  remember  them,  to  save  himself 
the  trouble  of  looking  out  for  them  for  the  future. 

To  continue  in  the  same  pedantic  strain,  of  all  the  va¬ 
rious  grammars  now  taught  in  the  schools  about  town,  j 
would  recommend  only  the  old  common  one.  I  have  forgot 


E8SAYS. 


413 


whether  Lily’s,  or  an  emendation  of  him.  The  others 
may  be  improvements  ;  but  such  improvements  seem  to 
me  only  mere  grammatical  niceties,  no  way  influencing 
the  learner ;  but  perhaps  loading  him  with  subtilties, 
which  at  a  proper  age  he  must  be  at  some  pains  to 
forget. 

Whatever  pains  a  master  may  take  to  make  the  learn  ¬ 
ing  of  the  languages  agreeable  to  his  pupil,  he  may  de¬ 
pend  upon  it,  it  will  be  at  first  extremely  unpleasant. 
The  rudiments  of  every  language,  therefore,  must  be 
given  as  a  task,  not  as  an  amusement.  Attempting  to  de¬ 
ceive  children  into  instruction  of  this  kind,  is  only  de¬ 
ceiving  ourselves;  and  I  know  no  passion  capable  of 
conquering  a  child’s  natural  laziness  but  fear.  Solomon 
has  said  it  before  me  ;  nor  is  there  any  more  certain, 
though  perhaps  more  disagreeable  truth,  than  the  proverb 
in  verse,  too  well  known  to  repeat  on  the  present  occasion. 
It  is  very  probable  that  parents  are  told  of  some  masters 
who  never  use  the  rod,  and  consequently  are  thought  the 
properest  instructors  for  their  children  ;  but,  though  ten¬ 
derness  is  a  requisite  quality  in  an  instructor,  yet  there  is 
too  often  the  truest  tenderness  in  well-timed  correction. 

Some  have  justly  observed,  that  all  passions  should 
be  banished  on  this  terrible  occasion ;  but  I  know  not 
how,  there  is  a  frailty  attending  human  nature  that  few 
masters  are  able  to  keep  their  temper  whilst  they  correct. 
I  knew  a  good-natured  man,  who  was  sensible  of  his  own 
weakness  in  this  respect,  and  consequently  had  recourse  to 
the  following  expedient  to  prevent  his  passions  from  be¬ 
ing  engaged,  yet  at  the  same  time  administer  justice  with 

impartiality.  Whenever  any  of  his  pupils  committed  9 

35* 


04 


ESSAYS. 


fault,  he  summoned  a  jury  of  his  peers,  I  mean  of  the 
boys  of  his  own  or  the  next  classes  to  him :  his  accusers 
stood  forth  ;  he  had  liberty  of  pleading  in  his  own  de¬ 
fence,  and  one  or  two  more  had  the  liberty  of  pleading 
against  him ;  when  found  guilty  by  the  pannel,  he  was 
consigned  to  the  footman,  who  attended  in  the  house,  and 
had  previous  orders  to  punish,  but  with  lenity.  By  this 
means  the  master  took  off  the  odium  of  punishment  from 
himself ;  and  the  footman,  between  whom  and  the  boys 
there  could  not  be  even  the  slightest  intimacy,  was  placed 
in  such  a  light  as  to  be  shunned  by  every  boy  in  the 
school. 


ON  THE  VERSATILITY  OF  POPULAR  FAVOR. 

An  alehouse-keeper,  near  Islington,  who  had  long  lived 
at  the  sign  of  the  French  King,  upon  the  commencement 
of  the  last  war  with  France,  pulled  down  his  old  sign, 
and  put  up  that  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary.  Under  the 
influence  of  her  red  face  and  golden  sceptre,  he  continued 
to  sell  ale,  till  she  was  no  longer  the  favorite  of  his  cus¬ 
tomers  ;  he  changed  her,  therefore,  some  time  ago,  for  the 
King  of  Prussia ;  who  may  probably  be  changed  in  turn, 
for  the  next  great  man  that  shall  be  set  up  for  vulgar 
admiration. 

Our  publican,  in  this,  imitates  the  great  exactly ;  who 
deal  out  their  figures,  one  after  the  other,  to  the  gazing 
crowd.  When  we  have  sufficiently  wondered  at  one, 
that  is  taken  in,  and  another  exhibited  in  its  room,  which 


ESSAYS. 


415 


seldom  holds  its  station  long ;  for  the  mob  are  ever  pleased 
with  variety. 

I  must  own,  I  have  such  an  indifferent  opinion  of  the 
vulgar,  that  I  am  ever  led  to  suspect  that  merit  which 
raises  their  shout ;  at  least,  I  am  certain  to  find  those 
great,  and  sometimes  good  men,  who  find  satisfaction  in 
such  acclamations,  made  worse  by  it ;  and  history  has 
too  frequently  taught  me,  that  the  head  which  has  grown 
this  day  giddy  with  the  roar  of  the  million,  has  the  very 
next  been  fixed  upon  a  pole. 

As  Alexander  VI.  was  entering  a  little  town  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Rome,  which  had  been  just  evacuated 
by  the  enemy,  he  perceived  the  townsmen  busy  in  the 
market  place  in  pulling  down  from  a  gibbet  a  figure 
which  had  been  designed  to  represent  himself.  There 
were  also  some  knocking  down  a  neighboring  statue  of 
one  of  the  Orsini  family,  with  whom  he  was  at  war,  in 
order  to  put  Alexander’s  effigy  in  its  place.  It  is  possi¬ 
ble  a  man  who  knew  less  of  the  world  would  have  con¬ 
demned  the  adulation  of  those  barefaced  flatterers ;  but 
Alexander  seemed  pleased  at  their  zeal,  and  turning  to 
Borgia,  his  son,  said  with  a  smile,  “  Vides,  mi  fili,  quam 
leve  discrimen  patibulum  inter  et  statuam: — Tou  see, 
ray  son,  the  small  difference  between  a  gibbet  and  a 
statue.”  If  the  great  could  be  taught  any  lesson,  this 
might  serve  to  teach  them  upon  how  weak  a  foundation 
their  glory  stands,  which  is  built  upon  popular  applause  ; 
for  as  such  praise  what  seems  like  merit,  they  as  quickly 
condemn  what  has  only  the  appearance  of  guilt. 

Ropular  glory  is  a  perfect  coquette ;  her  lovers  must 
toil,  feel  every  inquietude,  indulge  every  caprice  ;  and 


416 


ESSAYS. 


perhaps,  at  last,  be  jilted  into  the  bargain.  True  glory, 
on  the  other  hand,  resembles  a  woman  of  sense :  hei 
admirers  must  play  no  tricks;  they  feel  no  great  anxiety, 
for  they  are  sure,  in  the  end,  of  being  rewarded  in  pro¬ 
portion  to  their  merit.  When  Swift  used  to  appear  in 
public,  he  generally  had  the  mob  shouting  in  his  train 
“  Pox  take  these  fools,”  he  would  say ;  “  how  much  joy 
might  all  this  bawling  give  my  lord  mayor !  ** 

We  have  seen  those  virtues  which  have,  while  living, 
retired  from  the  public  eye,  generally  transmitted  to 
posterity  as  the  truest  objects  of  admiration  and  praise. 
Perhaps  the  character  of  the  late  Duke  of  Marlborough 
may  one  day  be  set  up,  even  above  that  of  his  more 
talked-of  predecessor;  since  an  assemblage  of  all  the 
mild  and  amiable  virtues  are  far  superior  to  those  vulgar¬ 
ly  called  the  great  ones.  I  must  be  pardoned  for  this 
short  tribute  to  the  memorv  of  a  man.  who.  while  living 
would  as  much  detest  to  receive  any  thing  that  wore  the 
appearance  of  flattery,  as  I  should  to  offer  it. 

I  know  not  how  to  turn  so  trite  a  subject  out  of  the 
beaten  road  of  common-place,  except  by  illustrating  it 
rather  by  the  assistance  of  my  memory  than  judgment ; 
and,  instead  of  making  reflections,  by  telling  a  story. 

A  Chinese  who  had  long  studied  the  works  of  Confu¬ 
cius,  who  knew  the  characters  of  fourteen  thousand  words 
and  could  read  a  great  part  of  every  book  that  came  in 
his  way,  once  took  it  into  his  head  to  travel  into  Europe, 
and  observe  the  customs  of  a  people  whom  he  thought 
not  very  much  inferior,  even  to  his  own  countrymen,  in 
the  arts  of  refining  upon  every  pleasure.  Upon  his  arri¬ 
val  at  Amsterdam,  his  passion  for  letters  naturally  led 


ESSAYS. 


417 


him  uto  a  bookseller’s  shop ;  and,  as  fce  could  speak  a  little 
Dutch,  he  civilly  asked  the  bookseller  for  the  works  of  the 
immortal  Xixofou.  The  bookseller  assured  him  he  had 
ne  ver  heard  the  book  mentioned  before.  “  What !  have 
you  never  heard  of  that  immortal  poet  ?”  returned  the 
other,  much  surprised ;  “  that  light  of  the  eyes,  that  favor¬ 
ite  of  kings,  that  rose  of  perfection  !  I  suppose  you  know 
nothing  of  the  immortal  Fipsihihi,  second  cousin  to  the 
moon?”  “Nothing  at  all,  indeed,  sir,”  returned  the 
other.  “Alas!”  cries  our  traveller,  “to  what  purpose, 
then,  has  one  of  these  fasted  to  death,  and  the  other 
offered  himself  up  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  Tartar  enemy,  to 
gain  a  renown  which  has  never  travelled  beyond  the  pre¬ 
cincts  of  China?” 

There  is  scarce  a  village  in  Europe,  and  not  one  uni¬ 
versity,  that  is  not  thus  furnished  with  its  little  great  men. 
The  head  of  a  petty  corporation,  who  opposes  the  do- 
signs  of  a  prince,  who  would  tyranically  force  his  subjects 
to  save  their  best  clothes  for  Sundays  ;  the  puny  pedant 
who  finds  one  undiscovered  property  in  the  polype,  or 
describes  an  unheeded  process  in  the  skeleton  of  a  mole, 
and  whose  mind,  like  his  microscope,  perceives  nature 
only  in  detail ;  the  rhymer  who  makes  smooth  verses,  and 
paints  to  our  imagination,  when  he  should  only  speak  to 
our  hearts  :  all  equally  fancy  themselves  walking  forward 
to  immortality,  and  desire  the  crowd  behind  them  to  look 
on.  The  crowd  takes  them  at  their  word.  Patriot,  phi¬ 
losopher,  and  poet,  are  shouted  in  their  train. — “  Where 
was  there  ever  so  much  merit  seen  ?  No  times  so  impor¬ 
tant  as  our  own  ;  ages,  yet  unborn,  shall  gaze  with  wondei 
and  applause!”  To  such  music,  the  important  oigmj 


418 


ESSAYS. 


moves  forward,  bustling  and  swelling,  and  aptly  compare 
to  a  puddle  in  a  storm. 

I  have  lived  to  see  generals  who  cnee  had  crowds  hah 
looing  after  them  wherever  they  went,  who  were  be- 
praised  by  newspapers  and  magazines,  those  echoes  of  the 
voice  of  the  vulgar,  and  yet  they  have  long  sunk  im<i 
merited  obscurity,  with  scarce  even  an  epitaph  left  to 
tiatter.  A  few  years  ago  the  herring  fishery  emploved 
all  Grub-street ;  it  was  the  topic  in  every  coffee-hoi^  e, 
and  the  burden  of  every  ballad.  We  were  to  drag  ip 
oceans  of  gold  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  we  wer&  to 
supply  all  Europe  with  herrings  upon  our  own  terms. 
At  present  we  hear  no  more  of  all  this.  We  have  fished 
up  very  little  gold,  that  I  can  learn  ;  nor  do  we  furnish 
the  world  with  herrings,  as  was  expected.  Let  us  wait 
but  a  few  years  longer,  and  we  shall  find  all  our  expect 
tations  a  herring-fishery. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  MAGAZINE  IN  MINIATURE. 

We  essayists,  who  are  allowed  but  one  subject  at  a 
time,  are  by  no  means  so  fortunate  as  the  writers  of  raaff* 
azines,  who  write  upon  several.  If  a  magaziner  be  dull 
upon  the  Spanish  war,  he  soon  has  us  up  again  with  the 
ghost  in  Cock-lane ;  if  the  reader  begins  to  doze  upon 
that,  he  is  quickly  roused  by  an  eastern  tale ;  tales  pre¬ 
pare  us  for  poetry,  and  poetry  for  the  meteorological 
history  of  the  weather.  It  is  the  life  and  soul  of  a  mag¬ 
azine,  never  to  be  long  dull  upon  one  subject :  and  the 


ESSAYS. 


419 


reader,  like  the  sailor’s  horse,  has  at  least  the  comfortable 
refreshment  of  having  the  spur  often  changed. 

As  I  se*'  no  reason  why  they  should  carry  off  all  the 
rewards  ot  genius,  I  have  some  thoughts,  for  the  future, 
of  making  this  essay  a  magazine  in  miniature :  I  shah 
hop  from  subject  to  subject,  and  if  properly  encouraged. 
I  intend  in  time  to  adorn  my  feuille- volant  with  pictures 
But  to  begin,  in  the  usual  form,  with 

A  modest  Address  to  the  Public. 

The  public  has  been  so  often  imposed  upon  by  the  un¬ 
performing  promises  of  others,  that  it  is  with  the  utmost 
modesty  we  assure  them  of  our  inviolable  design  of  giving 
the  very  best  collection  that  ever  astonished  society.  The 
public  we  honor  and  regard,  and  therefore  to  instruct  and 
entertain  them  is  our  highest  ambition,  with  labors  calcu¬ 
lated  as  well  to  the  head  as  the  heart.  If  four  extraordi¬ 
nary  pages  of  letter-press  be  any  recommendation  of  our 
wit,  we  may  at  least  boast  the  honor  of  vindicating  our 
own  abilities.  To  say  more  in  favor  of  the  Infernal  Mag¬ 
azine,  would  be  unworthy  the  public ;  to  say  less,  would 
be  injurious  to  ourselves.  As  we  have  no  interested 
motives  for  this  undertaking,  being  a  society  of  gentlemen 
of  distinction,  we  disdain  to  eat  or  write  like  hirelings : 
we  are  all  gentlemen,  resolved  to  sell  our  sixpenny  mag¬ 
azine  merely  for  our  own  amusement. 

Be  careful  to  ask  for  the  Infernal  Magazine. 


420 


E9SAY8. 


DEDICATION 

TO  THAT  MOST  INGENIOUS  OF  ALL  PATKOW8,  » 
TRIPOLINE  AMBASSADOR. 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 

As  your  taste  in  the  fine  arts  is  universally  allowed  an  j 
admired,  permit  the  authors  of  the  Infernal  Magazine  to 
/ay  the  following  sheets  humbly  at  your  excellency’s  toe  ; 
and  should  our  labors  ever  have  the  happiness  of  one  da} 
adorning  the  courts  of  Fez,  we  doubt  not  that  the  influ¬ 
ence  wherewith  we  are  honored,  shall  be  ever  retained 
with  the  most  warm  ardor  by, 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 

Your  most  devoted  humble  servants, 

The  AiUhors  of  the  Infernal  Magazine . 


A  SPEECH, 

SPOKEN  BY  THE  INDIGENT  PHILOSOPHER,  TO  PERSUADE  HIS 
CLUB  AT  CATEATON  NOT  TO  DECLARE  AVAR  AGAINST  SPAIN 

My  honest  friends  and  brother  politicians,  I  perceive 
that  the  intended  war  with  Spain  makes  many  of  you 
uneasy.  Yesterday,  as  we  were  told,  the  stocks  rose,  and 
you  were  glad ;  to-day  they  fall,  and  you  are  again  mis¬ 
erable.  But,  my  dear  friends,  what  is  the  rising  or  fall  ag 
of  the  stocks  to  us,  who  have  no  money  ?  Let  Nathan 
Ben  F unk,  the  Dutch  Jew,  be  glad  or  sorry  for  this ;  but 
my  gwd  Mr.  Bellows-mender,  what  is  all  this  to  you  or 
me  ?  You  must  mend  broken  bellows,  and  I  write  bad 


ESSAYS. 


421 


prose,  as  long  as  we  live,  whether  we  like  a  Spanish  war 
or  not.  Believe  me,  my  honest  friends,  whatever  you 
may  talk  of  liberty  and  your  own  reason,  both  that  liberty 
and  reason  are  conditionally  resigned  by  every  poor  man 
in  every  society ;  and  as  we  were  born  to  work,  so  others 
are  bom  to  watch  over  us  while  we  are  working.  In  the 
name  of  common  sense  then,  my  good  friends,  let  the 
great  keep  watch  over  us,  and  let  us  mind  our  business, 
and  perhaps  we  may  at  last  get  money  ourselves,  and  set 
beggars  at  work  in  our  turn.  I  have  a  Latin  sentence 
that  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold,  and  which  I  shall  beg 
leave  to  translate  for  your  instruction.  An  author,  called 
Lily’s  Grammar,  finely  observes,  that  “Alls  in  present! 
perfectum  format that  is,  “  Ready  money  makes  a  per¬ 
fect  man.”  Let  us  then  get  ready  money,  and  let  them 
that  will,  spend  theirs  by  going  to  war  with  Spain. 

RULES  FOR  BEHAVIOR. 

DRAWN  UP  BY  THE  INDIGENT  PHILOSOPHER. 

If  you  be  a  rich  man,  you  may  enter  the  room  with 
three  loud  hems,  march  deliberately  up  to  the  chimney, 
and  turn  your  back  to  the  fire.  If  you  be  a  poor  man,  i 
would  advise  you  to  shrink  into  the  room  as  fast  as  you 
can,  and  place  yourself,  as  usual,  upon  the  corner  of  a 
chair,  in  a  remote  corner. 

When  you  are  desired  to  sing  in  company,  I  would  ad¬ 
vise  you  to  refuse  ;  for  it  is  a  thousand  to  one  but  that 
you  torment  us  with  affectation  or  a  bad  voice. 

If  you  be  young,  and  live  with  an  old  man,  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  like  gravy.  I  was  disinherited  myself 
for  liking  gravy. 


36 


422 


ESSAYS, 


Do  not  laugh  much  in  public  :  the  spectators  that  are 
not  as  merry  as  you,  will  hate  you,  either  because  they 
envy  your  happiness,  or  fancy  themselves  the  subject  of 
your  mirth. 

RULES  FOR  RAISING  THE  DEVIL. 

Translated  from  the  Latin  of  Danceus  de  Sortiariis,  a  writer 
contemporary  with  Calvin,  and  one  of  the  Reformers  of  our 
Church. 

The  person  who  desires  to  raise  the  devil,  is  to  sacrifice 
a  dog,  a  cat,  and  a  hen,  all  of  his  own  property,  to  Beel¬ 
zebub.  He  is  to  swear  an  eternal  obedience,  and  then  to 
receive  a  mark  in  some  unseen  place,  either  under  the 
eye-lid,  or  in  the  roof  of  the  mouth,  indicted  by  the  devil 
himself.  Upon  this  he  has  power  given  him  over  three 
spirits  ;  one  for  earth,  another  for  air,  and  a  third  for  the 
sea.  Upon  certain  times  the  devil  holds  an  assembly  of 
magicians,  in  which  each  is  to  give  an  account  of  what 
evil  he  has  done,  and  what  he  wishes  to  do.  At  this  as¬ 
sembly  he  appears  in  the  shape  of  an  old  man,  or  often 
like  a  goat  with  large  horns.  They,  upon  this  occasion, 
renew  their  vows  of  obedience ;  and  then  form  a  grand 
dance  in  honor  of  their  false  deity.  The  deity  instructs 
them  in  every  method  of  injuring  mankind,  in  gathering 
poisons,  and  of  riding  upon  occasion  through  the  air.  He 
shows  them  the  whole  method,  upon  examination,  of  giv¬ 
ing  evasive  answers  ;  his  spirits  have  power  to  assume 
the  form  of  angels  of  light,  and  there  is  but  one  method 
of  detecting  them,  viz.  to  ask  them  in  proper  form,  what 
method  is  the  most  certain  to  propagate  the  faith  over  all 


V 


ESSAYS. 


423 


the  world  ?  To  this  they  arc  not  permitted  by  the  supe¬ 
rior  Power  to  make  a  false  reply,  nor  are  they  willing  to 
give  the  true  one ;  wherefore  they  continue  silent,  and 
are  thus  detected. 


BEAU  TIBBS:  A  CHARACTER. 

Though  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of  gay  com¬ 
pany,  and  take  every  opportunity  of  thus  dismissing  the 
mind  from  duty.  From  this  motive  I  am  often  found  in 
the  centre  of  a  crowd ;  and  wherever  pleasure  is  to  be 
sold,  am  always  a  purchaser.  In  those  places,  without 
being  remarked  by  any,  I  join  in  whatever  goes  forward, 
work  my  passions  into  a  similitude  of  frivolous  earnest¬ 
ness,  shout  as  they  shout,  and  condemn  as  they  happen 
to  disapprove.  A  mind  thus  sunk  for  a  "while  below  its 
natural  standard,  is  qualified  for  stronger  flights,  as  those 
first  retire  who  would  spring  forward  with  greater  vigor. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  a  friend  and 
I  lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company  in  one  of  the  pub¬ 
lic  walks  near  the  city.  Here  we  sauntered  together  for 
some  time,  either  praising  the  beauty  of  such  as  were 
handsome,  or  the  dresses  of  such  as  had  nothing  else  to 
recommend  them.  We  had  gone  thus  deliberately 
forward  for  some  time,  when  my  friend.,  stopping  on  a 
sudden,  caught  me  by  the  elbow,  and  led  me  out  of  the 
public  walk.  1  could  perceive  by  the  quickness  of  his 
pace,  and  by  his  frequently  looking  behind,  that  he  was 
attempting  to  avoid  somebody  who  followed :  we  now 
turned  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left :  as  we  went  forward, 


I 


424  ESSAYS. 

he  still  went  faster,  but  in  vain ;  the  person  whom  he  at¬ 
tempted  to  escape,  hunted  us  through  every  doubling, 
and  gained  upon  us  each  moment ;  so  that  at  last  we 
fairly  stood  still,  resolving  to  face  what  we  could  not 
avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  an*d  joined  us  with  all  the 
familiarity  ot  an  old  acquaintance.  u  My  dear  Charles,” 
cries  he,  shaking  my  friend’s  hand,  “  where  have  you 
been  hiding  this  half  a  century  ?  Positively,  I  had  fancied 
you  had  gone  down  to  cultivate  matrimony  and  youi 
estate  in  the  country.”  During  the  reply,  1  had  an  op¬ 
portunity  of  surveying  the  appearance  of  our  new  com¬ 
panion.  Ilis  hat  was  pinched  up  writh  peculiar  smartness: 
his  looks  were  pale,  thin,  and  sharp ;  round  his  neck  he 
wore  a  broad  black  riband,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle 
studded  with  glass  ;  his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished 
twist ;  he  wore  by  his  side  a  sword  with  a  black  hilt : 
and  his  stockings  of  silk,  though  newly  washed,  were 
grown  yellow  by  long  service.  I  was  so  much  engaged 
with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dress,  that  I  attended  only  to 
the  latter  part  of  my  friend’s  reply ;  in  which  he  com¬ 
plimented  Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste  of  his  clothes  and  the 
bloom  in  his  countenance.  “  Psha,  psha,  Charles,”  cries 
the  figure,  “  no  more  of  that  if  you  love  me  :  you  know  1 
hate  flattery,  on  my  soul  I  do ;  and  yet,  to  be  sure,  an  in¬ 
timacy  with  the  great  will  improve  one’s  appearance,  and 
a  course  of  venison  will  fatten ;  and  yet,  faith,  I  despise 
the  great  as  much  as  you  do :  but  there  are  a  great 
many  damned  honest  fellows  among  them,  and  we  must 
not  quarrel  with  one  half  because  the  other  wants  breed¬ 
ing.  If'  they  were  all  such  as  my  Lord  Mudler.  one 


I 


ESSAYS.  425 

of  the  most  good-natured  creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a 
lemon,  I  should  myself  be  among  the  number  of  their 
admirers.  I  was  yesterday  to  dine  at  the  Duchess  of 
Piccadilly’s.  My  Lord  was  there.  Ned,  says  he  to  me, 
Ned,  says  he,  I  will  hold  gold  to  silver  I  can  tell  where 
you  were  poaching  last  night.  Poaching!  my  lord,  saj?a 
I ;  faith  you  have  nnissed  already ;  for  I  staid  at  home 
and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That  is  my  way :  I  taka 
a  fine  woman  as  some  animals  do  their  prey ;  stand  still, 
and  swoop,  they  fall  into  my  mouth.” 

u  Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow,”  cried  my  com 
panion,  with  looks  of  infinite  pity.  “  I  hope  your  fortune 
is  as  much  improved  as  your  understanding  in  such  com¬ 
pany.”  “  Improved !  ”  replied  the  other,  “you  shall  know 
—  but  let  it  go  no  farther,  —  a  great  secret  —  five  hun¬ 
dred  a  year  to  begin  with.  —  My  lord’s  word  of  honor  for 
if  —  His  lordship  took  me  in  his  own  chariot  yesterday, 
and  we  had  a  tete-a-t§te  dinner  in  the  country,  where  we 
talked  of  nothing  else.”  “  I  fancy  you  forgot,  sir,”  cried 
I,  “you  told  us  but  this  moment  of  your  dining  yesterday 
in  town  ?  ”  “  Did  I  say  so  ?  ”  replied  he,  coolly.  “  To  be 
sure,  if  I  said  so,  it  was  so.  —  Dined  in  town :  egad,  now 
I  remember,  I  did  dine  in  town ;  but  I  dined  in  the  coun¬ 
try  too  ;  for.  you  must  know,  my  boys,  I  eat  two  dinners. 
By  the  by,  I  am  grown  as  nice  as  the  devil  in  my  eating 
1  will  tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that :  we  were  a 
select  party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady  Grogram’s,  an  affected 
piece,  but  let  it  go  no  farther  ;  a  secret:  Well,  says  I,  1 
will  hold  a  thousand  guineas,  and  say  Done  first,  that  — 
But,  dear  Charles,  you  are  an  honest  creature  ;  lend  me 
half-  a-crown  for  a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just  till  —  Bid 

36* 


42C 


ESSAYS. 


hark’ee,  ask  me  for  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it  mej 
be  twenty  to  one  but  I  forget  to  pay  you.” 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally  turned 
upon  so  extraordinary  a  character.  “  His  very  dress, 
dies  my  friend,  is  not  less  extraordinary  than  his  con¬ 
duct.  If  you  meet  him  this  day,  you  find  him  in  rags  \ 
if  the  next,  in  embroidery.  With  tht>se  persons  cf  dis* 
tinction,  of  whom  he  talks  so  familiarly,  he  has  scarce  a 
coffee-house  acquaintance.  However,  both  for  the  inter¬ 
est  of  society,  and,  perhaps,  for  his  own,  Heaven  has 
made  him  poor ;  and  while  all  the  world  perceives  his 
wants,  he  fancies  them  concealed  from  every  eye.  An 
agreeable  companion,  because  he  understands  flattery : 
and  all  must  be  pleased  with  the  first  part  of  his  conver¬ 
sation,  though  all  are  sure  of  its  ending  with  a  demand 
on  their  purse.  While  his  youth  countenances  the  levity 
of  his  conduct,  he  may  thus  earn  a  precarious  subsist¬ 
ence  ;  but,  when  age  comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is 
incompatible  with  buffoonery,  then  will  he  find  himself 
forsaken  by  all ;  condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang 
upon  some  rich  family  whom  he  once  despised,  there  to 
undergo  all  the  ingenuity  of  studied  contempt ;  to  be  em¬ 
ployed  only  as  a  spy  upon  the  servants,  or  a  bugbear  to 
tright  children  into  duty.” 


BEAU  TIBBS  —  CONTINUED. 

There  are  some  acquaintances  whom  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  beau  yesterday  overtook 
me  again  in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and  slapping  me  on 


ESSAYS. 


427 


the  shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect 
familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual,  except  that 
he  had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a  dirtier  shirt,  and 
had  on  a  pair  of  Temple  spectacles,  and  his  hat  under 
lus  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless,  amusing  little  thing, 

could  not  return  his  smiles  wTitk  any  degree  of  severity ; 
so  we  walked  forward  on  terms  of  the  utmost  intimacy, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  discussed  all  the  usual  topics  pre¬ 
liminary  to  particular  conversation. 

The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however,  soon 
began  to  appear ;  he  bowed  to  several  well-dressed  per¬ 
sons,  who,  by  their  manner  of  returning  the  compliment, 
appeared  perfect  strangers.  At  intervals  he  drew  out  a 
pocket-book,  seeming  to  take  memorandums  before  all 
the  company  with  much  importance  and  assiduity.  In 
this  manner  he  led  me  through  the  length  of  the  whole 
Mall,  fretting  at  his  absurdities,  and  fancying  myself 
laughed  at  as  well  as  him  by  every  spectator. 

When  wre  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession, 
w  Blast  me,”  cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  “  I  never 
saw  the  Park  so  thin  in  my  life  before;  there’s  no  com¬ 
pany  at  all  to-day.  Not  a  single  lace  to  be  seen.”  “  No 
company,”  interrupted  I,  peevishly,  “  no  company  where 
there  is  such  a  crowd  !  Why,  man,  there  is  too  much. 
What  are  the  thousands  that  have  been  laughing  at  us 
but  company?”  “Lord,  my  dear,”  returned  he  with  the 
utmost  good-humor,  “  you  seem  immensely  chagrined ; 
but,  blast  me,  when  the  world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at 
the  world,  and  so  we  are  even.  My  Lord  Trip.  Bill 
Squash,  the  Creolian,  and  I,  sometimes  make  a  party  at 


428 


ESSAYS. 


being  ridiculous  ;  and  so  we  say  ard  do  a  thousand  things 
for  the  joke’s  sake.  But  I  see  you  are  grave ;  and  if 
you  are  for  a  fine  grave  sentimental  companion,  you  shall 
dine  with  my  wife  to-day;  I  must  insist  on ’t ;  I  ’ll  intro¬ 
duce  you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifications 
as  any  in  nature  she  was  bred,  but  that ’s  between  our¬ 
selves,  under  the  inspection  of  the  countess  of  Shoreditch. 
A  charming  body  of  voice!  But  no  more  of  that  —  she 
shall  give  us  a  song.  You  shall  see  my  little  girl,  too, 
Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Tibbs,  a  sweet  pretty  crea¬ 
ture  ;  I  design  her  for  my  Lord  Drumstick’s  eldest  son ; 
but  that ’s  in  friendship,  let  it  go  no  farther ;  she ’s  but 
six  years  old,  and  yet  she  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on 
the  guitar,  immensely,  already.  I  intend  she  shall  be  as 
perfect  as  possible  in  every  accomplishment.  In  the  first 
place,  I  ’ll  make  her  a  scholar ;  I  ’ll  teach  her  Greek  my¬ 
self,  and  I  intend  to  learn  that  language  purposely  to  in¬ 
struct  her,  but  let  that  be  a  secret.” 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  took  me 
by  the  arm  and  hauled  me  along.  We  passed  through 
many  dark  alleys,  and  winding  ways ;  for,  from  some 
motives  to  me  unknown,  he  seemed  to  have  a  particular 
aversion  to  every  frequented  street ;  at  last,  however,  we 
got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal-looking  house  in  the  outlets 
of  the  town,  where  he  informed  me  he  chose  to  reside  for 
the  benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  seemed  ever  to  lie 
most  hospitably  open ;  and  I  began  to  ascend  an  old  and 
creaking  staircase ;  when,  as  he  mounted  to  show  me  the 
way,  he  demanded,  whether  I  delighted  in  prospects ;  to 
which  answering  in  the  affirmative,  “  Then,”  said  he,  “  I 


ESSAYS. 


429 


shall  show  you  one  of  the  most  charming  out  of  my  win¬ 
dows  ;  we  shall  see  the  ships  sailing,  and  the  whole  country 
for  twenty  miles  round,  tip  top,  quite  high.  My  Lord 
Swamp  would  give  ten  thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one  ; 
but  as  I  sometimes  pleasantly  tell  him,  I  always  love  to 
keep  my  prospects  at  home,  that  my  friends  may  come  to 
see  me  the  oftener.” 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs 
would  permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was 
facetiously  pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the  chimney; 
and,  knocking  at  the  door,  a  voice  with  a  Scotch  accent 
from  within  demanded,  “  Wha ’s  there  ?”  My  conductor 
answered  that  it  was  he.  But  this  not  satisfying  the 
querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  demand ;  to  which 
he  answered  louder  than  before ;  and  now  the  door  was 
opened  by  an  old  maid-servant  with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house 
with  great  ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked 
where  her  lady  was.  “  Good  troth,”  replied  she,  in  the 
northern  dialect,  “  she ’s  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the 
next  door,  because  they  have  taken  an  oath  against  lend¬ 
ing  out  the  tub  any  longer.”  “  My  two  shirts !  ”  cries  he, 
in  a  tone  that  faltered  with  confusion,  “  what  does  the 
idiot  mean?”  —  “I  ken  what  I  mean  well  enough,”  re¬ 
plied  the  other ;  “  she ’s  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the 

next  door,  because - ”  “Fire  and  fury,  no  more  of 

thy  stupid  explanations,”  he  cried.  “  Go  and  inform  her  w  e 
have  got  company.  Were  that  Scotch  hag,”  continued  he, 
naming  to  me,  “  to  be  forever  in  my  family,  ohe  would 
never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd,  poisonous 
accent  of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of  breed- 


ESSAYS. 


tug  or  higli  life ;  and  yet  it  is  very  surprising,  too,  m  1 
had  her  from  a  parliament  man,  a  friend  of  mine,  from 
the  Highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men  in  the  world ;  but 
that  ’s  a  secret.” 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs’  arrival,  during 
which  interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of  surveying  the 
chamber  and  all  its  furniture ;  which  consisted  of  four 
chairs  with  old  wrought  bottoms,  that  he  assured  me  were 
his  wife’s  embroidery ;  a  square  table  that  had  been  once 
japanned  ;  a  cradle  in  one  corner,  a  lumber-cabinet  in  the 
other ;  a  broken  shepherdess,  and  a  mandarine  without  a 
head,  were  stuck  over  the  chimney  ;  and  round  the  walls 
several  paltry  unframed  pictures,  which  he  observed  were 
all  of  his  own  drawing.  “  What  do  you  think,  sir,  of 
that  head  in  the  corner,  done  in  the  manner  of  Grisoni  r 
There ’s  the  true  keeping  in  it ;  it ’s  my  own  face ;  and, 
though  there  happens  to  be  no  likeness,  a  countess  offered 
me  a  hundred  for  its  fellow :  I  refused  her,  for,  hang  ic, 
that  would  be  mechanical,  you  know.” 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance ;  at  once  a  slat 
tern  and  coquette ;  much  emaciated,  but  still  carrying  the 
remains  of  beauty.  She  made  twenty  apologies  for  being 
seen  in  such  an  odious  dishabille,  but  hoped  to  be  excused, 
as  she  had  stayed  out  all  night  at  Vauxhall  Gardens  with 
the  countess,  who  was  excessively  fond  of  the  horns, 
u  A  nd,  indeed,  my  dear,”  added  she,  turning  to  her  hus¬ 
band,  Li  his  lordship  drank  your  health  in  a  bumper.” 
u  Poor  Jack !  ”  cries  he,  “  a  dear  good-natured  creature,  3 
know  he  loves  me ;  but  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have  given 
orders  for  dinner;  you  need  make  no  great  preparations 
neither  there  are  but  three  of  us ;  something  elegant, 


s 


ESSAYS. 


431 


End  little  will  do  ;  a  turbot,  an  ortolan,  or  a - ”  “  Or 

what  do  you  think,  my  dear,”  interrupts  the  wife,  “  of  a 
nice  pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and  dressed  with  a 
little  of  my  own  sauce  ?  ”  “  The  very  thing,”  replies  he ; 

it  will  sat  best  with  some  smart  bottled  beer;  but  be  sure 
to  let ’s  have  the  sauce  his  Grace  was  so  fond  of.  I  hate 
your  immense  loads  of  meat;  that  is  country  all  over ; 
extreme  disgusting  to  those  who  are  in  the  least  acquaint¬ 
ed  with  high  life.” 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and  my  appe¬ 
tite  to  increase ;  the  company  of  fools  may  at  first  make 
us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of  rendering  us  melan¬ 
choly.  I  therefore  pretended  to  recollect  a  prior  engage¬ 
ment,  and  after  having  shown  my  respects  to  the  house, 
by  giving  the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money  at  the  door,  I 
took  my  leave ;  Mr.  Tibbs  assuring  me,  that  dinner,  if  I 
stayed,  would  be  ready  at  least  in  less  than  two  hours. 


ON  THE  IKRESOLUTION  OF  YOUTH. 

As  it  has  been  observed  that  few  are  better  qualified 
to  give  others  advice,  than  those  who  have  taken  the  least 
of  it  themselves ;  so  in  this  respect  I  find  myself  perfectly 
authorized  to  offer  mine ;  and  must  take  leave  to  throw 
together  a  few  observations  upon  that  part  of  a  young 
man’s  conduct,  on  his  entering  into  life,  as  it  is  called. 

The  most  usual  way  among  young  men  who  have  no 
resolution  of  their  own,  is  first  to  ask  one  friend’s  advice, 
and  follow  it  for  some  time  ;  than  to  ask  advice  of  anoth¬ 
er,  and  turn  to  that ;  so  of  a  third,  still  unsteady,  always 


432 


ESSAYS. 


changing.  However,  every  change  of  this  nature  is  foi 
the  worse ;  people  may  tell  you  cf  your  being  unfit  foi 
some  peculiar  occupations  iu  life;  but  heed  them  not 
whatever  employment  you  follow  with  perseverance  and 
assiduity,  will  be  found  fit  for  you;  it  will  be  your  support 
in  youth,  and  comfort  in  age.  In  learning  the  useful  part 
of  every  profession,  very  moderate  abilities  will  suffice : 
great  abilities  are  generally  obnoxious  to  the  possessors. 
Life  has  been  compared  to  a  race ;  but  the  allusion  still 
improves  by  observing,  that  the  most  swift  are  ever  the 
most  apt  to  stray  from  the  course. 

To  know  one  profession  only,  is  enough  for  one  man  to 
know  ;  and  this,  whatever  the  professors  may  tell  you  to 
the  contrary,  is  soon  learned.  Be  contented,  therefore, 
with  one  good  employment ;  for  if  you  understand  two  at 
a  time,  people  will  give  you  business  in  neither. 

A  conjurer  and  a  tailor  once  happened  to  converse  to¬ 
gether.  “  Alas !  ”  cries  the  tailor,  “  what  an  unhappy  poor 
creature  am  I !  If  people  take  it  into  their  heads  to  live 
without  clothes,  I  am  undone ;  I  have  no  other  trade  to 
have  recourse  to.”  “  Indeed,  friend,  I  pity  you  sincerely,” 
replies  the  conjurer;  “but,  thank  Heaven,  things  are  not 
quite  so  bad  with  me :  for,  if  one  trick  should  fail,  I  have 
a  hundred  tricks  more  for  them  yet.  However,  if  at  any 
time  you  are  reduced  to  beggary,  apply  to  me,  and  I  will 
relieve  you.”  A  famine  overspread  the  land  ;  the  tailor 
made  a  shift  to  live,  because  his  customers  could  not  be 
without  clothes  ;  but  the  poor  conjurer,  with  all  his  hun¬ 
dred  tricks,  could  find  none  that  had  money  to  throw 
away :  it  was  in  vain  that  he  promised  to  eat  lire,  or  to 
vomit  pins ;  no  single  creature  would  relieve  him,  till  ho 


ESSAYS. 


*33 


seas  at  last  obliged  to  beg  from  the  very  tailor  whose  call 
mg  lie  had  formerly  despised. 

There  are  no  obstructions  more  fatal  to  fortune  than 
pride  and  resentment.  If  you  must  resent  injuries  at  all* 
at  least  suppress  your  indignation  till  you  become  rich, 
and  then  show  away.  The  resentment  of  a  poor  man  is 
like  the  efforts  of  a  harmless  insect  to  sting ;  it  may  get 
him  crushed,  but  cannot  defend  him.  Who  values  that 
anger  which  is  consumed  only  in  empty  menaces  ? 

Once  upon  a  time  a  goose  fed  its  young  by  a  pond- 
side  ;  and  a  goose,  in  such  circumstances,  is  always  ex¬ 
tremely  proud,  and  excessively  punctilious.  If  any  other 
animal,  without  the  least  design  to  offend,  happened  to 
pass  that  way,  the  goose  was  immediately  at  it.  The 
pond,  she  said,  was  hers,  and  she  would  maintain  her 
right  in  it,  and  support  her  honor,  while  she  had  a  bill  to 
hiss,  or  a  wing  to  flutter.  In  this  manner  she  drove 
away  ducks,  pigs,  and  chickens ;  nay,  even  the  insidious 
cat  was  seen  to  scamper.  A  lounging  mastiff,  however, 
happened  to  pass  by,  and  thought  it  no  harm  if  he  should 
lap  a  little  of  the  water,  as  he  was  thirsty.  The  guardian 
goose  flew  at  him  like  a  fury,  pecked  at  him  with  her 
beak,  and  slapped  him  with  her  feathers.  The  dog  grew 
angry,  and  had  twenty  times  a  mind  to  give  her  a  sly 
snap ;  but  suppressing  his  indignation,  because  his  master 
was  nigh,  “  A  pox  take  thee,”  cries  he,  “  for  a  fool ;  sure, 
those  who  have  neither  strength  nor  weapons  to  fight,  at 
least  should  be  civil.”  So  saying,  he  went  forward  to  the 
pond,  quenched  his  thirst,  in  spite  of  the  goose,  ana  tal¬ 
lowed  his  master. 

Another  obstruction  to  the  fortune  of  youth  is,  that 

37 


434 


ESSAYS. 


while  they  are  willing  to  take  offence  from  none,  they  are 
also  equally  desirous  of  giving  nobody  offence.  From 
hence  they  endeavor  to  please  all,  comply  with  ever}''  re¬ 
quest,  and  attempt  to  suit  themselves  to  every  company 
have  no  will  of  their  own,  but,  like  wax,  catch  every  con¬ 
tiguous  impression.  By  thus  attempting  to  give  universal 
satisfaction,  they  at  last  find  themselves  miserably  disap¬ 
pointed  :  to  bring  the  generality  of  admirers  on  our  side, 
it  is  sufficient  to  attempt  pleasing  a  very  few. 

A  painter  of  eminence  was  once  resolved  to  finish  a 
piece  which  should  please  the  whole  world.  When,  there¬ 
fore  he  had  drawn  a  picture,  in  which  his  utmost  skill 
was  exhausted,  it  was  exposed  in  the  public  market¬ 
place,  with  directions  at  the  bottom  for  every  spectator 
to  mark  with  a  brush,  that  lay  by,  every  limb  and  feature 
which  seemed  erroneous.  The  spectators  came,  and  in  the 
general  applauded ;  but  each,  willing  to  show  his  talent 
at  criticism,  stigmatized  whatever  he  thought  proper.  At 
evening,  when  the  painter  came,  he  was  mortified  to  find 
the  picture  one  universal  blot,  not  a  single  stroke  that  had 
not  the  marks  of  disapprobation.  Not  satisfied  with  this 
trial,  the  next  day  he  was  resolved  to  try  them  in  a  dif¬ 
ferent  manner :  and  exposing  his  picture  as  before,  de¬ 
sired  that  every  spectator  would  mark  those  beauties  he 
approved  or  admired.  The  people  complied,  and  the  art¬ 
ist  returning,  found  his  picture  covered  with  the  marks  of 
beauty;  every  stroke  that  had  been  yesterday  condemned, 
now  received  the  character  of  approbation.  “Well,* 
cries  the  painter,  “  I  now  find  that  the  best  way  to  pleas® 
all  the  world,  is  to  attempt  pleasing  one  half  of  it.” 


ESSAYS. 


435 


ON  MAD  DOGS. 

Indulgent  nature  seems  to  have  exempted  this  island 
horn  many  of  those  epidemic  evils  which  are  so  fatal  in 
other  parts  of  the  world.  A  want  of  rain  for  a  few  days 
oeyond  the  expected  season,  in  some  parts  of  the  globe, 
spreads  famine,  desolation,  and  terror,  over  the  whole 
country ;  but,  in  this  fortunate  island  of  Britain,  the  in¬ 
habitant  courts  health  in  every  breeze,  and  the  husband 
man  ever  sows  in  joyful  expectation. 

But  though  the  nation  be  exempt  from  real  evils,  it  is 
not  more  happy  on  this  account  than  others.  The  people 
are  afflicted,  it  is  true,  with  neither  famine  nor  pestilence ; 
but  then  there  is  a  disorder  peculiar  to  the  country,  which 
every  season  makes  strange  ravages  among  them  ;  it 
spreads  with  pestilential  rapidity,  and  infects  almost  ev¬ 
ery  rank  of  people ;  what  is  still  more  strange,  the  natives 
have  no  name  for  this  peculiar  malady,  though  well 
known  to  foreign  physicians  by  the  appellation  of  Epi¬ 
demic  Terror. 

A  season  is  never  known  to  pass  in  which  the  people 
are  not  visited  by  this  cruel  calamity  in  one  shape  or 
another,  seemingly  different,  though  eVbr  the  same ;  one 
year  it  issues  from  a  baker’s  shop  in  the  shape  of  a  six¬ 
penny  loaf,  the  next  it  takes  the  appearance  of  a  comet 
with  a  fiery  tail,  the  third  it  threatens  like  a  flat-bottomed 
boat,  and  the  fourth  it  carries  consternation  in  the  bite  of  a 
mad  dog.  The  people,  when  once  infected,  lose  their 
relish  for  happiness,  saunter  about  with  looks  of  despond* 
ence,  ask  after  the  calamitfes  of  the  day,  and  receive  no 
comfort  but  in  heightening  each  others  distress,  it  is  ua- 


4:36 


ESSAYS. 


significant  how  remote  or  near,  he  w  weak  or  powerful 
the  object  of  terror  may  be,  when  once  they  resolve  tc 
fright  and  be  frighted ;  the  merest  trifles  sow  consterna¬ 
tion  and  dismay ;  each  proportions  his  fears,  not  to  the 
object,  but  to  the  dread  he  discovers  in  the  countenance 
of  others ;  for,  when  once  the  fermentation  is  begun,  it 
goes  on  of  itself,  though  the  original  cause  be  discon¬ 
tinued  which  at  first  set  it  in  motion. 

A  dread  of  mad  dogs  is  the  epidemic  terror  which 
now  prevails,  and  the  whole  nation  is  at  present  actual¬ 
ly  groaning  under  the  malignity  of  its  influence.  The 
people  sally  from  their  houses  with  that  circumspection 
which  is  prudent  in  such  as  expect  a  mad  dog  at  every 
turning.  The  physician  publishes  his  prescription,  the 
beadle  prepares  his  halter,  and  a  few  of  unusual  bravery 
arm  themselves  with  boots  and  buff  gloves,  in  order  to 
face  the  enemy,  if  he  should  offer  to  attack  them.  In 
short,  the  whole  people  stand  bravely  upon  their  defence, 
and  seem,  by  their  present  spirit,  to  show  a  resolution  of 
being  tamely  bit  by  mad  dogs  no  longer. 

Their  manner  of  knowing  whether  a  dog  be  mad  or 
no,  somewhat  resembles  the  ancient  gothic  custom  of  try¬ 
ing  witches.  The  old  woman  suspected  was  tied  hand 
and  foot,  and  thrown  into  the  water.  If  she  swam,  then 
she  was  instantly  carried  off  to  be  burnt  for  a  witch ;  if 
she  sunk,  then  indeed  she  was  acquitted  of  the  charge, 
hut  drowned  in  the  experiment.  In  the  same  manner  a 
crowd  gather  round  a  dog  suspected  of  madness,  and  they 
begin  by  teasing  the  devoted  animal  on  every  side.  If 

attempts  to  stand  on  the  defensive,  and  bite,  then  he 
is  unanimously  lounci  guilty,  tor  u  a  mad  dog  always  snaps 


\ 


4 


E33AYS.  437 

p.t  every  tiling.”  If,  on  the  contrary,  he  strives  to  escape 
by  running  away,  then  he  can  expect  no  compassion,  for 
“  mad  dogs  always  run  straight  forward  before  them.” 

It  is  pleasant  enough  for  a  neutral  being  like  me,  who 
have  no  share  in  those  ideal  calamities,  to  mark  the 
stages  of  this  national  disease.  The  terror  at  first  feebly 
enters  with  a  disregarded  story  of  a  little  dog  that  had 
gone  through  a  neighboring  village,  which  was  thought  to 
be  mad  by  several  who  had  seen  him.  The  next  account 
comes,  that  a  mastiff  ran  through  a  certain  town,  and  bit 
five  geese,  which  immediately  ran  mad,  foamed  at  the 
bill,  and  died  in  great  agonies  soon  after.  Then  comes 
an  affecting  story  of  a  little  boy  bit  in  the  leg,  and  gone 
down  to  be  dipped  in  the  salt  water.  When  the  people 
have  sufficiently  shuddered  at  that,  they  are  next  con¬ 
gealed  with  a  frightful  account  of  a  man  who  was  said 
lately  to  have  died  from  a  bite  he  had  received  some 
years  before.  This  relation  only  prepares  the  way  for 
another,  still  more  hideous ;  as  how  the  master  of  a  fam¬ 
ily,  with  seven  small  children,  were  all  bit  by  a  mad  lap- 
dog  ;  and  how  the  poor  father  first  perceived  the  infection 
byr  calling  for  a  draught  of  water,  where  ue  saw  the  lap- 
dog  swimming  in  the  cup. 

VYrhen  epidemic  terror  is  thus  once  excited,  every  morn¬ 
ing  comes  loaded  with  some  new  disaster  :  as  in  stories  of 
ghosts  each  loves  to  hear  the  account,  though  it  only 
serves  to  make  him  uneasy;  so  here,  each  listens  with 
eagerness,  and  adds  to  the  tidings  with  new  circumstances 
of  peculiar  horror.  A  lady  for  instance,  in  the  country, 
of  very  weak  nerves,  has  been  frighted  by  the  barsing 
of  a  dog;  and  this,  alas !  too  frequently  happens.  Fins 

37* 


433 


ESSAYS. 


story  soon  is  improved,  and  spreads,  that  a  mad  dog  had 
frighted  a  lady  of,  distinction.  These  circumstances  be¬ 
gin  to  grow  terrible  before  they  have  reached  the  neigh¬ 
boring  village ;  and  there  the  report  is,  that  a  lady  of 
quality  was  bit  by  a  mad  mastiff.  This  account  every 
moment  gathers  new  strength,  and  grows  more  dismal  as 
it  approaches  the  capital ;  and  by  the  time  it  has  arrived 
in  town,  the  lady  is  described  with  wild  eyes,  foaming 
mouth,  running  mad  upon  all  four,  barking  like  a  dog, 
biting  her  servants,  and  at  last  smothered  between  two 
beds  by  the  advice  of  her  doctors ;  while  the  mad  mastiff 
is,  in  the  mean  time,  ranging  the  whole  country  over, 
slavering  at  the  mouth,  and  seeking  whom  he  may 
devour. 

My  land-lady,  a  good-natured  woman,  but  a  little  cred¬ 
ulous,  waked  me  some  mornings  ago  before  the  usual 
hour,  with  horror  and  astonishment  in  her  looks.  She 
desired  me,  if  I  had  any  regard  for  my  safety,  to  keep 
within  ;  for  a  few  days  ago,  so  dismal  an  accident  had 
happened,  as  to  put  all  the  world  upon  their  guard.  A 
mad  dog  down  in  the  country,  she  assured  me,  had  bit  a 
farmer,  who  soon  becoming  mad,  ran  into  his  own  yard 
and  bit  a  fine  brindled  cow  ;  the  cow  quickly  became  as 
mad  as  the  man,  began  to  foam  at  the  mouth,  and  raising 
herself  up,  walked  about  on  her  hind  legs,  sometimes 
barking  like  a  dog,  and  sometimes  attempting  to  talk  like 
the  farmer.  Upon  examining  the  grounds  of  this  story,  I 
found  my  landlady  had  it  from  one  neighbor,  who  had  it 
from  another  neighbor,  who  heard  it  from  very  good  au¬ 
thority. 

Were  most  stories  of  this  nature  well  examined,  il 


ESSAYS. 


439 


would  be  found  that  numbers  of  such  as  have  been  said 
to  suffer  are  in  no  way  injured ;  and  that  of  those  who 
have  been  actually  bitten,  not  one  in  a  hundred  was 
bit  by  a  mad  dog.  Such  accounts,  in  general,  therefore, 
only  serve  to  make  the  people  miserable  by  false  terrors  ,* 
and  sometimes  fright  the  patient  into  actual  frenzy,  by 
creating  those  very  symptoms  they  pretended  to  deplore. 

But  even  allowing  three  or  four  to  die  in  a  season  of 
this  terrible  death  (and  four  is  probably  too  large  a  con¬ 
cession),  yet  still  it  is  not  considered  how  many  are  pre¬ 
served  in  their  health  and  in  their  property  by  this  devot¬ 
ed  animal’s  services.  The  midnight  robber  is  kept  at  a 
distance  ;  the  insidious  thief  is  often  detected ;  the  health¬ 
ful  chase  repairs  many  a  worn  constitution ;  and  the  poor 
man  finds  in  his  dog  a  willing  assistant,  eager  to  lessen 
his  toil,  and  content  with  the  smallest  retribution. 

“  A  dog,”  says  one  of  the  English  poets,  “  is  an  honest 
creature,  and  I  am  a  friend  to  dogs.”  Of  all  the  beasts 
that  graze  the  lawn,  or  hunt  the  forest,  a  dog  is  the  only 
animal,  that  leaving  his  fellows,  attempts  to  cultivate  the 
friendship  of  man :  to  man  he  looks,  in  all  his  necessities, 
with  speaking  eye  for  assistance ;  exerts  for  him  all  the 
little  service  in  his  power  with  cheerfulness  and  pleasure , 
for  him  bears  famine  and  fatigue  with  patience  and  resig¬ 
nation  ;  no  injuries  can  abate  his  fidelity,  no  distress  in¬ 
duce  him  to  forsake  his  benefactor ;  studious  to  phase, 
and  fearing  to  offend,  he  is  still  an  humble,  steadfast  de¬ 
pendant  ;  and  in  him  alone  fawning  is  not  flattery.  How 
unkind  then  to  torture  this  faithful  creature,  who  has  left 
the  forest  to  claim  the  protection  of  man  !  How  ungrate¬ 
ful  a  return  to  the  trusty  animal  for  all  its  services. 


440 


ESSAYS. 


ON  THE  INCREASED  LOVE  OF  LIFE  WITH  AGE. 

Age,  that  lessens  the  enjoyment  of  life,  increases  cm 
desire  of  living.  Those  dangers,  which,  in  the  vigor  of 
youth,  we  had  learned  to  despise,  assume  new  terrors  aa 
we  grow  old.  Our  caution  increasing  as  our  years  in* 
crease,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  prevailing  passion  of  the 
mind,  and  the  small  remainder  of  life  is  taken  up  in  use¬ 
less  efforts  to  keep  off  our  end,  or  provide  for  a  continued 
existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to  which  even 
the  wise  are  liable!  If  I  should  judge  of  that  part  of" 
life  which  lies  before  me  by  that  which  I  have  already 
seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous.  Experience  tells  me,  that 
my  past  enjoyments  have  brought  no  real  felicity ;  and 
sensation  assures  me,  that  those  I  have  felt  are  stronger 
than  those  which  are  yet  to  come.  Yet  experience  and 
sensation  in  vain  persuade ;  hope,  more  powerful  than 
either,  dresses  out  the  distant  prospect  in  fancied  beauty ; 
some  happiness,  in  long  perspective,  still  beckons  me  to 
pursue ;  and,  like  a  losing  gamester,  every  new  disap¬ 
pointment  increases  my  ardor  to  continue  the  game. 

Whence  then  is  this  increased  love  of  life,  which  grows 
upon  us  with  our  years !  Whence  comes  it,  that  we  thus 
make  greater  efforts  to  preserve  our  existence,  at  a  period 
when  it  becomes  scarce  worth  the  keeping !  Is  it  that 
nature,  attentive  to  the  preservation  of  mankind,  increas¬ 
es  our  wishes  to  live,  while  she  lessens  our  enjoyments; 
and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of  every  pleasure,  equips  im¬ 
agination  in  the  spoil  ?  Life  would  be  insupportable  ta 
an  old  man,  who,  loaded  with  infirmities,  feared  death  nc 


ESSAY'S. 


441 


more  than,  when  in  the  vigor  of  manhood:  the  number  less 
calamities  of  decaying  nature,  and  the  consciousness  of 
surviving  every  pleasure,  would  at  once  induce  him,  with 
his  own  hand,  to  terminate  the  scene  of  misery ;  but  hap¬ 
pily  the  contempt  of  death  forsakes  him  at  a  time  when 
it  could  only  be  prejudicial;  and  life  acquires  an  imagi* 
nary  value  in  proportion  as  its  real  value  is  no  more. 

Our  attachment  to  every  object  around  us  increases,  in 
general,  from  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  with  it.  “  3 
would  not  choose,”  says  a  French  philosopher,  u  to  see  an 
old  post  pulled  up  with  which  I  had  been  long  acquaint¬ 
ed.”  A  mind  long  habituated  to  a  certain  set  of  objects, 
insensibly  becomes  fond  of  seeing  them ;  visits  them  from 
habit,  and  parts  from  them  with  reluctance :  from  hence 
proceeds  the  avarice  of  the  old  in  every  kind  of  posses¬ 
sion ;  they  love  the  world  and  all  that  it  produces;  they 
love  life  and  all  its  advantages  ;  not  because  it  gives  them 
pleasure,  but  because  they  have  known  it  long. 

Chinvang  the  Chaste,  ascending  the  throne  of  China, 
commanded  that  all  who  were  unjustly  detained  in  prison, 
during  the  preceding  reigns,  should  be  set  free.  Among 
the  number  who  came  to  thank  their  deliverer  on  this 

r  « 

occasion,  there  appeared  a  majestic  old  man,  who,  falling 
at  the  emperor’s  feet,  addressed  him  as  follows:  “  Great 
father  of  China,  behold  a  wretch,  now  eighty-five  years 
old,  who  was  shut  up  in  a  dungeon  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two.  I  was  imprisoned,  though  a  stranger  to  crime,  or 
without  being  even  confronted  by  my  accusers.  I  have 
now  lived  in  solitude  and  darkness  for  more  than  sixty 
years,  and  am  grown  familiar  with  distress.  As  yet  daz¬ 
zled  with  the  splendor  of  that  sun  to  which  3  011  have  re 


ESSAYS. 


£42 


stoi  ed  me,  I  have  been  wandering  the  streets  to  lind  oat 
some  friend  that  would-  assist,  or  relieve,  or  remember 
me ;  but  my  friends,  my  family,  and  relations,  are  all 
dead,  and  I  am  forgotten.  Permit  me  then,  O  Chinvang, 
to  wear  out  the  wretched  remains  of  life  in  my  former 
prison  ;  the  walls  of  my  dungeon  are  to  me  more  pleas- 
mg  than  the  most  splendid  palace :  I  have  not  long  to 
live,  and  shall  be  unhappy  except  I  spend  the  rest  of  my 
days  where  my  youth  was  passed,  in  that  prison  from 
whence  you  were  pleased  to  release  me.” 

The  old  man’s  passion  for  confinement  is  similar  to  that 
we  all  have  for  life.  We  are  habituated  to  the  prison ; 
we  look  round  with  discontent,  are  displeased  with  the 
abode,  and  yet  the  length  of  our  captivity  only  increases 
our  fondness  for  the  cell.  The  trees  we  have  planted, 
the  houses  we  have  built,  or  the  posterity  we  have  be¬ 
gotten,  all  serve  to  bind  us  closer  to  the  earth,  and  embit¬ 
ter  our  parting.  Life  sues  the  young  like  a  new  acquaints 
ance ;  the  companion,  as  yet  unexhausted,  is  at  once  in¬ 
structive  and  amusing  ;  its  company  pleases ;  yet,  for  all 
this,  it  is  but  little  regarded.  To  us,  who  are  declined  in 
years,  life  appears  like  an  old  friend ;  its  jests  have  been 
anticipated  in  former  conversation ;  it  has  no  new  story 
to  make  us  smile,  no  new  improvement  with  which  to  sur¬ 
prise  ;  yet  still  we  love  it ;  destitute  of  every  enjoyment, 
still  we  love  it ;  husband  the  wasting  treasure  with  in¬ 
creasing  frugality,  and  feel  all  the  poignancy  of  anguish 
in  the  fatal  separation. 

Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sincere, 
brave  —  an  Englishman.  He  had  a  complete  fortune  of 
his  own,  and  the  love  of  the  king  his  master,  which  was 


\ 


ESSAYS. 


443 


equivalent  to  riches.  Life  opened  all  her  treasures  before 
him,  and  promised  a  long  succession  of  future  happiness. 
He  came,  tasted  of  the  entertainment,  but  was  disgusted 
even  at  the  beginning.  He  professed  an  aversion  to 
living ;  was  tired  of  walking  round  the  same  circle ;  had 
tried  every  enjoyment,  and  found  them  all  grow  weaker 
at  every  repetition.  “  If  life  be,  in  youth,  so  displeasing,” 
cried  he  to  himself,  u  what  will  it  appear  when  age  comes 
on  ?  If  it  be  at  present  indifferent,  sure  it  will  then  be 
execrable.”  This  thought  imbittered  every  reflection ;  till, 
at  last,  with  all  the  serenity  of  perverted  reason,  he  end¬ 
ed  the  d<.  with  a  pistol !  Had  this  self-deluded  man 
been  apprised,  that  existence  grows  more  desirable  to  us 
the  longer  we  exist,  he  would  then  have  faced  old  age 
without  shrinking ;  he  would  have  boldly  dared  to  live 
and  serve  that  society,  by  his  future  assiduity,  which  he 
basely  injured  by  his  desertion. 


ON  THE  LADIES’  PASSION  FOP  LEVELLING  ALL 
DISTINCTION  OF  DRESS. 

Foreigners  observe  that  there  are  no  ladies  in  the 
world  more  beautiful,  or  more  ill-dressed,  than  those  of 
England  Our  country-women  have  been  compared  to 
those  pictures,  where  the  face  is  the  work  of  a  Raphael, 
but  the  draperies  thrown  out  by  some  empty  pretender, 
destitute  of  taste,  and  entirely  unacquainted  with  design. 

Jf  I  were  a  poet,  I  might  observe,  on  this  occasion 
that  so  much  beauty,  set  off  with  all  the  advantages  of 
dress,  would  be  too  powerful  an  antagonist  for  the  opposite 
sex;  and  therefore  it  was  wisely  ordered  that  our  ladies 


M4 


ESSAYS. 


should  want  taste,  lest  their  admirers  should  entirely  warn 
reason. 

But  to  confess  a  truth,  I  do  not  find  they  have  greatei 
aversion  to  fine  clothes  than  the  women  of  any  othei 
country  whatsoever.  I  cannot  fancy  that  a  shopkeeper’s 
wife  in  Cheapside  has  a  greater  tenderness  for  the  fi>r 
tune  of  her  husband,  than  a  citizen’s  wife  in  Paris ;  or 
that  miss  in  a  boarding-school  is  more  an  economist  in 
dress  than  mademoiselle  in  a  nunnery. 

Although  Paris  may  be  accounted  the  soil  in  which 
almost  every  fashion  takes  its  rise,  its  influence  is  never 
60  general  there  as  with  us.  They  study  there  the  happy 
method  of  uniting  grace  and  fashion,  and  never  excuse  a 
woman  for  being  awkwardly  dressed,  by  saying  her  clothes 
are  in  the  mode.  A  French  woman  is  a  perfect  architect 
in  dress ;  she  never,  with  Gothic  ignorance,  mixes  the 
orders ;  she  never  tricks  out  a  squabby  Doric  shape  with 
Corinthian  finery;  or,  to  speak  without  metaphor,  she 
conforms  to  general  fashion  only  when  it  happens  not  to 
be  repugnant  to  private  beauty. 

The  English  ladies,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have  no 
other  standard  of  grace  but  the  run  of  the  town.  If  fash¬ 
ion  gives  the  word,  every  distinction  of  beauty,  complex¬ 
ion,  or  stature,  ceases.  Sweeping  trains,  Prussian  bonnets, 
and  trollopees,  as  like  each  other  as  if  cut  from  the  same 
piece,  level  all  to  one  standard.  The  Mall,  the  gardens, 
and  playhouses,  are  filled  with  ladies  in  uniform ;  and 
their  whole  appearance  shows  as  little  variety  of  taste  as 
if  their  clothes  were  bespoke  by  the  colonel  of  a  marching 
regiment,  or  fancied  by  the  artist  who  dresses  the  three 
battalions  of  guards. 


ESSAYS. 


413 


But  not  only  the  ladies  of  every  shape  and  complex 
ion,  but  of  every  age,  too,  are  possessed  of  this  unaccount¬ 
able  passion  for  levelling  all  distinction  in  dress.  The 
lady  of  no  quality  travels  first  behind  the  lady  of  some 
quality ;  and  a  woman  of  sixty  is  as  gaudy  as  her  grand¬ 
daughter.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  good-natured  old  mail, 
amused  me  the  other  day  with  an  account  of  his  journey 
to  the  Mall.  It  seems,  in  his  walk  thither,  he,  for  some 
time,  followed  a  lady,  who,  as  he  thought,  by  her  dress,  was 
a  girl  of  fifteen.  It  was  airy,  elegant,  and  youthful.  My 
old  friend  had  called  up  all  his  poetry  on  this  occasion, 
and  fancied  twenty  Cupids  prepared  for  execution  in  every 
folding  of  her  white  negligee.  He  had  prepared  his  im¬ 
agination  for  an  angel’s  face;  but  what  was  his  mortifica¬ 
tion  to  find  that  the  imaginary  goddess  was  no  other  than 
his  cousin  Hannah,  some  years  older  than  himself. 

But  to  give  it  in  his  own  words  :  “  After  the  transports 
of  our  first  salute,”  said  he,  “  were  over,  I  could  not  avoid 
running  my  eye  over  her  whole  appearance.  Her  gown 
was  of  cambric,  cut  short  before,  in  order  to  discover  a 
high-heeled  shoe,  which  was  buckled  almost  at  the  toe. 
Her  cap  consisted  of  a  few  bits  of  cambric,  and  flowers 
of  painted  paper  stuck  on  one  side  of  her  head.  Her 
bosom,  that  had  felt  no  hand  but  the  hand  of  time  these 
twenty  years,  rose,  suing  to  be  pressed.  I  could,  indeed, 
have  wished  her  more  than  a  handkerchief  of  Paris  net 
to  shade  her  beauties  ;  for,  as  Tasso  says  of  the  rose-bud, 
‘Quanto  si  nostra  men,  tanto  e  piu  bella.”  A  female 
breast  is  generally  thought  the  most  beautiful  as  it  is  more 
sparingly  discovered. 


38 


446 


ESSAY8. 


As  my  cousin  had  not  put  on  all  this  finery  for  nothing 
she  was  at  that  time  sallying  out  to  the  Park,  where  I  haa 
overtaken  her.  Perceiving,  however,  that  I  had  on  my 
best  wig,  she  offered,  if  I  would  squire  her  there,  to  send 
home  the  footman.  Though  I  trembled  for  our  reception 
in  public,  yet  I  could  not,  with  any'  civility,  refuse  ;  so,  to 
be  as  gallant  as  possible,  I  took  her  hand  in  my  arm,  and 
thus  we  marched  on  together. 

When  we  made  our  entry  at  the  Park,  two  antiquated 
figures,  so  polite  and  so  tender,  soon  attracted  the  eyes  of 
the  company.  As  we  made  our  way  among  crowds  who 
were  out  to  show  their  finery  as  well  as  we,  wherever  we 
came,  I  perceived  we  brought  good-humor  with  us.  The 
polite  could  not  forbear  smiling,  and  the  vulgar  burst  out 
into  a  horse-laugh,  at  our  grotesque  figures.  Cousin 
Hannah,  who  was  perfectly  conscious  of  the  rectitude  of 
her  own  appearance,  attributed  all  this  mirth  to  the  oddity 
of  mine ;  while  I  as  cordially  placed  the  whole  to  her 
account.  Thus,  from  being  two  of  the  best  natured  crea¬ 
tures  alive,  before  we  got  half  way  up  the  Mall,  we  both 
began  to  grow  peevish,  and,  like  two  mice  on  a  string,  en¬ 
deavored  to  revenge  the  impertinence  of  others  upon  our¬ 
selves.  ‘I  am  amazed,  cousin  Jeffery,”  says  miss,  “that 
I  can  never  get  yrou  to  dress  like  a  Christian.  I  knew 
we  should  have  the  eyres  of  the  Park  upon  us,  with  your 
great  wig  so  frizzled,  and  yet  so  beggarly,  and  your  mon¬ 
strous  muff.  I  hate  those  odious  muffs.’  1  could  have 
patiently'  borne  a  criticism  on  all  the  rest  of  my  equipage; 
but  as  I  had  always  a  peculiar  veneration  for  my  muff,  1 
oould  not  forbear  being  piqued  a  little ;  and,  throwing  my 


ESSAYS. 


447 


fiycs  with  a  spiteful  air  on  her  bosom,  44 1  could  heartilv 
wish,  madam,”  replied  I,  44  that,  for  your  sake,  my  muff 
was  cut  into  a  tippet.” 

As  my  cousin,  by  this  time,  was  grown  heartily  asham 
ed  of  her  gentleman-usher,  and  as  I  was  never  very  fond 
of  any  kind  of  exhibition  myself,  it  was  mutually  agreed 
to  retire  for  a  while  to  one  of  the  seats,  and,  from  that 
retieat,  remark  on  others  as  freely  as  they  had  remarked 
on  us. 

Wdien  seated,  we  continued  silent  for  some  time,  em¬ 
ployed  in  very  different  speculations.  I  regarded  the 
whole  company,  now  passing  in  review  before  me,  as 
drawn  out  merely  for  my  amusement.  For  my  entertain¬ 
ment  the  beauty  had,  all  that  morning  been  improving 
her  charms :  the  beau  had  put  on  lace,  and  the  young 
doctor  a  big  wig,  merely  to  please  me.  But  quite  differ 
ent  were  the  sentiments  of  cousin  Hannah :  she  regarded 
every  well-dressed  woman  as  a  victorious  rival;  hated 
every  face  that  seemed  dressed  in  good-humor,  or  wore 
the  appearance  of  greater  happiness  than  her  own.  1 
perceived  her  uneasiness,  and  attempted  to  lessen  it,  by 
observing  that  there  wras  no  company  in  the  Park  to-day. 
To  this  she  readily  assented ;  44  And  yet,”  says  she,  44  it  is 
full  enough  of  scrubs  of  one  kind  or  another.”  My 
smiling  at  this  observation  gave  her  spirits  to  pursue  the 
bent  of  her  inclination,  and  now  she  began  to  exhibit  her 
skill  in  secret  history,  as  she  found  me  disposed  to  listen, 
u  Observe,”  says  she  to  me,  44  that  old  woman  in  tawdry 
silk,  find  dressed  out  beyond  the  fashion.  That  is  Miss 
Biddy  Evergreen.  Miss  Biddy,  it  seems,  has  money; 
and  as  she  considers  that  money  wras  never  so  scarce  as 


448 


ESSAYS. 


it  is  now,  she  seems  resolved  to  keep  what  she  has  to  her* 
8 elf.  She  is  ugly  enough,  you  see ;  yet,  1  assure  you,  she 
has  refused  several  offers,  to  my  knowledge,  within  this 
twelvemonth.  Let  me  see,  three  gentlemen  from  Ireland, 
who  study  the  law,  two  waiting  captains,  her  doctor,  and  a 
Scotch  preacher  who  had  liked  to  have  carried  her  off. 
All  her  time  is  passed  between  sickness  and  finery.  Thus 
she  spends  the  whole  week  in  a  close  chamber,  with  no 
other  company  but  her  monkey,  her  apothecary,  and  cat ; 
and  comes  dressed  out  to  the  Park  every  Sunday,  to 
show  her  airs,  to  get  new  lovers,  to  catch  a  new  cold,  and 
to  make  new  work  for  the  doctor. 

“  ‘  There  goes  Mrs.  Roundabout,  I  mean  the  fat  lady 
in  the  lustring  trollopee.  Between  you  and  I,  she  is  but 
a  cutler’s  wife.  See  how  she’s  dressed,  as  fine  as  hands 
and  pins  can  make  her,  while  her  two  marriageble  daugh¬ 
ters,  like  hunters  in  stuff  gowns,  are  now  taking  six¬ 
penny-worth  of  tea  at  the  White-conduit  house.  Odious 
puss,  how  she  waddles  along,  with  her  train  two  yards  be¬ 
hind  her !  She  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  lord  Bantam’s 
Indian  sheep,  which  are  obliged  to  have  their  monstrous 
tails  trundled  along  in  a  go-cart.  For  all  her  airs,  it  goes 
to  her  husband’s  heart  to  see  four  yards  of  good  lustring 
wearing  against  the  ground,  like  one  of  his  knives  on  a 
grindstone.  To  speak  my  mind,  cousin  Jeffery,  I  never 
liked  those  tails ;  for  suppose  a  young  fellow  should  be 
rude,  and  the  lady  should  offer  to  step  back  in  the  frigb* 
instead  of  retiring,  she  treads  upon  her  train,  and  falls 
famy  on  her  back ;  and  then  you  know,  cousin,  — *her 
f’lothes  may  be  spoiled. 

‘Ah!  Miss  Mazrard !  I  knew  we  should  not  rnisg 


ESSAYS. 


44$ 


her  in  the  Park ;  she  in  the  monstrous  Prussian  bonnet. 
Miss,  though  so  very  fine,  was  bred  a  milliner ;  and  might 
have  had  some  custom  if  she  had  minded  her  business 
but  the  girl  was  fond  of  finery,  and,  instead  of  dressing 
her  customers,  laid  out  all  her  goods  in  adorning  herself, 
every  new  gown  she  put  on  impaired  her  credit ;  she  still, 
however,  went  on,  improving  her  appearance  and  lessen¬ 
ing  her  little  fortune,  and  is  now,  you  see,  become  a  belle 
and  a  bankrupt.’ 

“My  cousin  was  proceeding  in  her  remarks,  which 
were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the  very  lady  she 
had  been  so  freely  describing.  Miss  had  perceived  her 
at  a  distance,  and  approached  to  salute  her.  I  found  by 
the  warmth  of  the  two  ladies’  protestations,  that  they  had 
been  long  intimate,  esteemed  friends  and  acquaintance. 
Both  were  so  pleased  at  this  happy  rencounter,  that  they 
were  resolved  not  to  part  for  the  day.  So  we  all  crossed 
the  Park  together,  and  I  saw  them  into  a  hackney-coach 
at  St.  James’s.” 


ASEM;  AN  EASTERN  TALE: 

OR  THE  WISDOM  OF  PROVIDENCE  IN  THE  MORAL  GOVERN¬ 
MENT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Where  Tauris  lifts  his  head  above  the  storm,  and 
presents  nothing  to  the  sight  of  the  distant  traveller  but 
a  prospect  of  nodding  rocks,  falling  torrents,  and  all  the 
variety  of  tremendous  nature;  on  the  bleak  bosom  of 
this  frightful  mountain,  secluded  from  society,  and  detest 
mg  the  ways  of  men,  lived  Asem,  the  man-hater. 

Qfl* 


450 


ESSAYS. 


Asem  had  spent  his  youth  with  men ;  had  shared  h 
their  amusements ;  and  had  been  taught  to  love  his  fel¬ 
low-creatures  with  the  most  ardent  affection  ;  but,  from 
the  tenderness  of  his  disposition,  he  exhausted  all  his  for¬ 
tune  in  relieving  the  wants  of  the  distressed.  The  pe¬ 
titioner  never  sued  in  vain  ;  the  weary  traveller  never 
passed  his  door  ;  he  only  desisted  from  doing  good  when 
he  had  no  longer  the  power  of  relieving. 

From  a  fortune  thus  spent  in  benevolence  he  expected 
a  grateful  return  from  those  he  had  formerly  relieved ; 
and  made  his  application  with  confidence  of  redress  :  the 
ungrateful  world  soon  grew  weary  of  his  importunity ;  for 
pity  is  but  a  short-lived  passion.  He  soon,  therefore, 
began  to  view  mankind  in  a  very  different  light  from  that 
in  which  he  had  before  beheld  them:  he  perceived  a 
thousand  vices  he  had  never  before  suspected  to  exist : 
wherever  he  turned,  ingratitude,  dissimulation,  and  treach¬ 
ery,  contributed  to  increase  his  detestation  of  them.  Re¬ 
solved,  therefore,  to  continue  no  longer  in  a  world  which 
he  hated,  and  which  repaid  his  detestation  with  contempt, 
he  retired  to  this  region  of  sterility,  in  order  to  brood  over 
his  resentment  in  solitude,  and  converse  with  the  only 
honest  heart  he  knew  ;  namely,  his  own. 

A  cave  was  his  only  shelter  from  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather ;  fruits,  gathered  with  difficulty  from  the 
mountain’s  side,  his  only  food  ;  and  his  drink  was  fetched 
with  danger  and  toil  from  the  headlong  torrent.  In  this 
manner  he  lived,  sequestered  from  society,  passing  the 
hours  in  meditation,  and  sometimes  exulting  that  that  he 
was  able  to  live  independently  of  his  fellow-creatures. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  an  extensive  lake  dis» 


ESSAYS. 


451 


played  its  glassy  bosom,  reflecting  on  its  broad  surface 
the  impending  horrors  of  the  mountain.  To  this  capacious 
mirror  he  would  sometimes  descend,  and,  reclining  on 
its  steep  banks,  cast  an  eager  look  on  the  smooth  expanse 
that  lay  before  him.  u  How  beautiful,”  he  often  crie'I, 

is  nature !  how  lovely,  even  in  her  wildest  scenes  1  . 
How  finely  contrasted  is  the  level  plain  that  lies  beneath, 
me,  with  yon  awful  pile  that  hides  its  tremendous  head  iu 
clouds !  But  the  beauty  of  these  scenes  is  no  way  com¬ 
parable  with  their  utility  ;  from  hence  a  hundred  rivers 
are  supplied,  which  distribute  health  and  verdure  to  the 
various  countries  through  which  they  flow.  Every  part  of 
the  universe  is  beautiful,  just,  and  wise,  but  man:  vile  man 
is  a  solecism  in  nature,  the  only  monster  in  the  creation. 
Tempests  and  whirlwinds  have  their  use ;  but  vicious,  un¬ 
grateful  man  is  a  blot  in  the  fair  page  of  universal  beau¬ 
ty.  Why  was  I  born  of  that  detested  species,  whose  vices 
are  almost  a  reproach  to  the  wisdom  of  the  Divine  Crea¬ 
tor  ?  Were  men  entirely  free  *rom  vice,  all  would  be 
uniformity,  harmony,  and  order.  A  world  of  moral  recti¬ 
tude  should  be  the  result  of  a  perfectly  moral  agent.  Why, 
why,  then,  O  Alla !  must  I  be  thus  confined  in  darkness, 
doubt,  and  despair  ?  ” 

Just  as  he  uttered  the  word  despair,  he  was  going  to 
plunge  into  the  lake  beneath  him,  at  once  to  satisfy  his 
doubts,  and  put  a  period  to  his  anxiety ;  when  he  per¬ 
ceived  a  most  majestic  being  walking  on  the  surface  of 
the  water,  and  approaching  the  bank  on  which  he  stood 
So  unexpected  an  object  at  once  checked  his  purpose;  he 
stopped,  contemplated,  and  fancied  he  saw  something  aw¬ 
ful  and  divine  in  his  aspect 


452 


ESSAYS. 


«  Son  of  Adam,”  cried  the  genius,  “  stop  thy  rash  pur 
pose ;  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  has  seen  thy  justice,  thy 
int  egrity,  thy  miseries ;  and  hath  sent  me  to  afford  an<? 
administer  relief.  Give  me  thine  hand,  and  follow  w  ith* 
out  trembling,  wherever  I  shall  lead ;  in  me  behold  the 
genius  of  conviction,  kept  by  the  great  prophet,  to  turn 
from  their  errors  those  who  go  astray,  not  from  curi¬ 
osity,  but  a  rectitude  of  intention.  Follow  me,  and  be 
wise.” 

Asem  immediately  descended  upon  the  lake,  and  his 
guide  conducted  him  along  the  surface  of  the  water ;  till, 
coming  near  the  centre  of  the  lake,  they  both  began  to 
sink  ;  the  waters  closed  over  their  heads  ;  they  descended 
several  hundred  fathoms,  till  Asem,  just  ready  to  give  up 
his  life  as  inevitably  lost,  found  himself  with  his  celestial 
guide  in  another  world,  at  the  bottom  of  the  waters, 
where  human  foot  had  never  trod  before.  His  astonish¬ 
ment  was  beyond  description,  when  he  saw  a  sun  like 
that  he  had  left,  a  serene  sky  over  his  head,  and  blooming 
verdure  under  his  feet. 

“  I  plainly  perceive  your  amazement,”  said  the  genius  ; 
u  but  suspend  it  for  a  while.  This  world  was  formed  by 
Alla,  at  the  request,  and  under  the  inspection  of  our 
great  prophet ;  who  once  entertained  the  same  doubts 
which  filled  your  mind  when  I  found  you,  and  from  the 
‘consequence  of  which  you  were  so  lately  rescued.  The 
rational  inhabitants  of  this  world  are  formed  agreeable  to 
your  own  ideas ;  they  are  absolutely  without  vice.  In  other 
respects  it  resembles  your  earth ;  but  differs  fi^n  it  in 
being  wholly  inhabited  by  men  who  never  do  wrong.  If  ( 
you  tind  this  world  more  agreeable  than  that  you  so  lately 


ESSAYS. 


453 


left,  you  have  free  permission  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
your  days  in  it ;  but  permit  me  for  some  time,  to  attend 
you,  that  I  may  silence  your  doubts,  and  make  you  better 
acquainted  with  your  company  and  your  new  habitation.” 

“  A  world  without  vice  !  Rational  beings  without  im¬ 
morality  !  ”  cried  Asem,  in  a  rapture  ;  “  I  thank  thee,  O 
Alla,  who  hast  at  length  heard  my  petitions :  this,  this  in¬ 
deed,  will  produce  happiness,  ecstasy,  and  ease.  O  for  an 
immortality,  to  spend  it  among  men  who  are  incapable  of 
ingratitude,  injustice,  fraud,  violence,  and  a  thousand  other 
crimes  that  render  society  miserable  !  ” 

“  Cease  thine  acclamations,”  replied  the  genius.  “  Look 
around  thee  ;  reflect  on  every  object  and  action  before  us, 
and  communicate  to  me  the  result  of  thine  observations. 
Lead  wherever  you  think  proper,  I  shall  be  your  at¬ 
tendant  and  instructor.”  Asem  and  his  companion  trav¬ 
elled  on  in  silence  for  some  time;  the  former  being 
entirely  lost  in  astonishment ;  but,  at  last,  recovering  his 
former  serenity,  he  could  not  help  observing  that  the  face 
of  the  country  bore  a  near  resemblance  to  that  he  had 
left,  except  that  this  subterranean  world  still  seemed  to 
retain  its  primeval  wildness. 

“  Here,”  cried  Asem,  “  I  perceive  animals  of  prey,  and 
others  that  seem  only  designed  for  their  subsistence ;  it 
is  the  very  same  in  the  world  over  our  heads.  But  had  I 
been  permitted  to  instruct  our  prophet,  X  would  have  re¬ 
moved  this  defect,  and  formed  no  voracious  or  destructive 
animals,  which  only  prey  on  the  other  parts  of  the  crea¬ 
tion.”  —  «  Your  tenderness  for  inferior  animals,  is,  I  find, 
remarkable,”  said  the  genius,  smiling.  “  But,  with  regard 
to  meaner  creatures,  this  world  exactly  resembles  the 


ESSAYS. 


464 

other ;  and,  indeed,  for  obvious  reasons :  for  the  earth  can 
support  a  more  considerable  number  of  animals,  by  their 
thus  becoming  food  for  each  other,  than  if  they  had  lived 
entirely  on  her  vegetable  productions.  So  that  animals 
of  different  natures  thus  formed,  instead  of  lessening  their 
multitudes,  subsist  in  the  greatest  number  possible.  But 
let  us  hasten  on  to  the  inhabited  country  before  us,  and 
see  what  that  offers  for  instruction.” 

They  soon  gained  the  utmost  verge  of  the  forest,  and 
entered  the  country  inhabited  by  men  without  vice ;  and 
Asem  anticipated  in  idea  the  rational  delight  he  hoped  to 
experience  in  such  an  innocent  society.  But  they  had 
scarce  left  the  confines  of  the  wood,  when  they  beheld  one 
of  the  inhabitants  flying  with  hasty  steps,  and  terror  in 
his  countenance,  from  an  army  of  squirrels  that  closely 
pursued  him.  “  Heavens  !  ”  cried  Asem,  “  why  does  he 
fly  ?  What  can  he  fear  from  animals  so  contemptible  ?” 
He  had  scarce  spoken,  when  he  perceived  two  dogs  pur¬ 
suing  another  of  the  human  species,  who,  with  equal 
terror  and  haste,  attempted  to  avoid  them.  “  This,”  cried 
Asem  to  his  guide,  “  is  truly  surprising ;  nor  can  I  con¬ 
ceive  the  reason  for  so  strange  an  action.”  “  Every 
species  of  animals,”  replied  the  genius,  “has  of  late  grown 
very  powerful  in  this  country ;  for  the  inhabitants,  at  first, 
thinking  it  unjust  to  use  either  fraud  or  force  in  destroying 
them,  they  have  insensibly  increased,  and  now  frequently 
ravage  their  harmless  frontiers.”  “  But  they  should  have 
been  destroyed,”  cried  Asem  ;  “  you  see  the  consequence 
of  such  neglect.”  “Where  is  then  that  tenderness  you 
so  lately  expressed  for  subordinate  animals?”  replied  the 
genius,  smiling :  “  you  seem  to  have  forgot  that  branch  of 


ESSAYS. 


455 

justice.”  “  I  must  acknowledge  my  mistake,”  returned 
Asem ;  “  I  am  now  convinced  that  we  must  be  guilty  of 
tyranny  and  injustice  to  the  brute  creation,  if  we  would 
enjoy  the  world  ourselves.  But  let  us  no  longer  observe 
the  duty  of  man  to  these  irrational  creatures,  but  survey 
their  connections  with  one  another.” 

As  they  walked  farther  up  the  country,  the  more  he 
was  surprised  to  see  no  vestiges  of  handsome  houses,  no 
cities,  nor  any  mark  of  elegant  design.  His  conductor, 
perceiving  his  surprise,  observed  that  the  inhabitants  of 
this  new  world  were  perfectly  content  with  their  ancient 
simplicity ;  each  had  a  house,  which,  though  homely,  was 
sufficient  to  lodge  his  little  family ;  they  w'ere  too  good  to 
build  houses  which  could  only  increase  their  own  pride, 
and  the  envy  of  the  spectator ;  what  they  built  was  for 
convenience,  and  not  for  show.  “At  least,  then,”  said 
Asem,  u  they  have  neither  architects,  painters,  nor  statu¬ 
aries,  in  their  society ;  but  these  are  idle  arts,  and  may  be 
spared.  However,  before  I  spend  much  more  time  here, 
you  shall  have  my  thanks  for  introducing  me  into  the 
society  of  some  of  their  wisest  men :  there  is  scarce 
any  pleasure  to  me  equal  to  a  refined  conversation 
there  is  nothing  of  which  I  am  so  much  enamoured  as 
wisdom.”  “  Wisdom !  ”  replied  his  instructor :  “  how  ridic¬ 
ulous  !  W e  have  no  wisdom  here,  for  we  have  no  occa¬ 
sion  for  it ;  true  wisdom  is  only  a  knowledge  of  our  own 
duty,  and  the  duty  of  others  to  us  ;  but  of  what  use  is 
such  wisdom  here  ?  Each  intuitively  performs  what  is 
right  in  himself,  and  expects  the  same  from  others.  If 
by  wisdom  you  should  mean  vain  curiosity,  and  empty 
speculation,  as  such  pleasures  have  their  origin  in  vanity, 


456 


ESSAYS. 


luxury,  or  avarice,  we  are  too  good  to  pursue  them/ 
u  All  this  may  be  right,”  says  Asein;  “but,  metliinks  1 
observe  a  solitary  disposition  prevail  among  the  people 
each  family  keeps  separately  within  their  own  precincts, 
without  society,  or  without  intercourse.”  “  That,  indeed, 
Is  true,”  replied  the  other ;  “  here  is  no  established  society, 
oor  should  there  be  any:  all  societies  are  made  either 
through  fear  or  friendship  ;  the  people  we  are  among  are 
too  good  to  fear  each  other ;  and  there  are  no  motives  to 
private  friendship,  where  all  are  equally  meritorious.” 
u  Well,  then,”  said  the  sceptic,”  as  I  am  to  spend  my  time 
here,  if  I  am  to  have  neither  the  polite  arts,  nor  wisdom, 
nor  friendship,  in  such  a  world,  I  should  be  glad,  at  least, 
of  an  easy  companion,  who  may  tell  me  his  thoughts,  and 
to  whom  I  may  communicate  mine.”  “  And  to  what  pur¬ 
pose  should  either  do  this ?”  says  the  genius:  “flattery 
or  curiosity  are  vicious  motives,  and  never  allowed  of 
here ;  and  wisdom  is  out  of  the  question. 

Still,  however,”  said  Asem,  “  the  inhabitants  must  be 
happy ;  each  is  contented  with  his  own  possessions,  nor 
avariciously  endeavors  to  heap  up  more  than  is  necessary 
for  his  own  subsistence;  each  has  therefore  leisure  for 
pitying  those  that  stand  in  need  of  his  compassion.”  He 
had  scarce  spoken  when  his  ears  were  assaulted  with  the 
lamentations  of  a  wretch  who  sat  by  the  way-side,  and, 
in  the  most  deplorable  distress,  seemed  gently  to  murmur 
at  his  own  misery.  Asem  immediately  ran  to  his  re¬ 
lief,  and  found  him  in  the  last  stage  of  a  consumption. 
u  Strange,”  cried  the  son  of  Adam,  “  that  men  who  are 
free  from  vice  should  thus  suffer  so  much  misery  without 
relief!”  “Be  not  surprised,”  said  the  wretch,  who  was 


ESSAYS. 


4r  r* 

57 

dying;  «  would  it  not  be  the  utmost  injustice  for  beings 
who  have  only  just  sufficient  to  support  themselves,  and 
are  content  with  a  bare  subsistence,  to  take  it  from  their 
own  mouths  to  put  it  into  mine  ?  They  never  are  posses¬ 
sed  of  a  single  meal  more  than  is  necessary ;  and  what  is 
barely  necessary  cannot  be  dispensed  with.”  “They 
should  have  been  supplied  with  more  than  is  necessary," 
cried  Asem  ;  “  and  yet  I  contradict  my  own  opinion  but 
a  moment  before :  all  is  doubt,  perplexity,  and  confusion. 
Even  the  want  of  ingratitude  is  no  virtue  here,  since  they 
never  receive  a  favor.  They  have,  however,  another  ex¬ 
cellence  yet  behind ;  the  love  of  their  country  is  still,  I 
hope,  one  of  their  darling  virtues.”  “Peace,  Asem,”  re¬ 
plied  the  guardian,  with  a  countenance  not  less  severe 
than  beautiful,  “  nor  forfeit  all  thy  pretensions  to  wisdom ; 
the  same  selfish  motives  by  which  we  prefer  our  own  in¬ 
terest  to  that  of  others,  induce  us  to  regard  our  country 
preferable  to  that  of  another.  Nothing  less  than  univer¬ 
sal  benevolence  is  free  from  vice,  and  that  you  see  is  prac¬ 
tised  here.”  “  Strange,”  cries  the  disappointed  pilgrim, 
in  an  agony  of  distress ;  “  what  sort  of  a  world  am  I  now 
introduced  to  ?  There  is  scarce  a  single  virtue,  but  that 
of  temperance,  which  they  practise ;  and  in  that  they  are 
no  way  superior  to  the  brute  creation.  There  is  scarce 
an  amusement  which  they  enjoy ;  fortitude,  liberality, 
friendship,  wisdom,  conversation,  and  love  of  country,  are 
all  virtues  entirely  unknown  here ;  thus  it  seems,  that  to 
be  unacquainted  with  vice  is  not  to  know  virtue.  Take 
me,  O  my  genius,  back  to  that  very  world  which  I  have 
despised ;  a  world  which  has  Alla  for  its  contriver,  is 
much  more  wisely  formed  than  that  which  has  been  pro- 

39 


458 


ESSAYS. 


jected  by  Mohammed.  Ingratitude,  contempt,  and  hatred, 
I  can  now  suffer,  for  perhaps  I  have  deserved  them. 
When  I  arraigned  the  wisdom  of  Providence,  I  only 
showed  my  own  ignorance ;  henceforth  let  me  keep  from 
vice  myself,  and  pity  it  in  others.” 

He  had  scarce  ended,  when  the  genius,  assuming  an  air 
cf  terrible  complacency,  called  all  his  thunders  around 
him,  and  vanished  in  a  whirlwind.  Asem,  astonished  at 
the  terror  of  the  scene,  looked  for  his  imaginary  world ; 
when,  casting  his  eyes  around,  he  perceived  himself  in  the 
very  situation,  and  in  the  very  place,  where  he  first  be¬ 
gan  to  repine  and  despair ;  his  right  foot  had  been  just 
advanced  to  take  the  fatal  plunge,  nor  had  it  been  yet 
withdrawn  ;  so  instantly  did  Providence  strike  the  series 
of  truths  just  imprinted  on  his  soul.  He  now  departed 
from  the  water-side  in  tranquillity,  and,  leaving  his  horrid 
mansion,  travelled  to  Segestan,  his  native  city ;  where  he 
diligently  applied  himself  to  commerce,  and  put  in  prac¬ 
tice  that  wisdom  he  had  learned  in  solitude.  The  frugality 
of  a  few  years  soon  produced  opulence ;  the  number  of 
his  domestics  increased;  his  friends  came  to  him  from 
every  part  of  the  city,  nor  did  he  receive  them  with  dis¬ 
dain  ;  and  a  youth  of  misery  was  concluded  with  an 
dd  age  of  elegance,  affluence,  and  ease. 


ON  THE  ENGLISH  CLERGY  AND  POPULAR 
PREACHERS. 

It  is  allowed  on  all  hands,  that  our  English  divines  re* 
ceivea  more  liberal  education,  and  improve  that  education 


ESSAYS. 


4A* 

by  frequent  study,  more  than  any  others  of  this  reverend 
profession  in  Europe.  In  general,  also,  it  may  be  observ¬ 
ed.,  that  a  greater  degree  of  gentility  is  affixed  to  the 
character  of  a  student  in  England  than  elsewhere ;  by 
■which  means  our  clergy  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
better  company  while  young,  and  of  sooner  wearing  off 
those  prejudices  which  they  are  apt  to  imbibe  even  in  the 
best-regulated  universities,  and  which  may  be  justly  term¬ 
ed  the  vulgar  errors  of  the  wise. 

Yet,  with  all  these  advantages,  it  is  very  obvious,  that 
the  clergy  are  no  where  so  little  thought  of,  by  the  popu 
lace,  as  here ;  and,  though  our  divines  are  foremost  with 
respect  to  abilities,  yet  they  are  found  last  in  the  effects 
of  their  ministry ;  the  vulgar,  in  general,  appearing  no 
way  impressed  with  a  sense  of  religious  duty.  I  am  not 
for  whining  at  the  depravity  of  the  times,  or  for  endeav¬ 
oring  to  paint  a  prospect  more  gloomy  than  in  nature ; 
but  certain  it  is,  no  person  who  has  travelled  will  contra¬ 
dict  me,  when  I  aver,  that  the  lower  orders  of  mankind, 
in  other  countries,  testify,  on  every  occasion,  the  profound- 
est  awe  of  religion ;  while  in  England  they  are  scarcely 
awakened  into  a  sense  of  its  duties,  even  in  circumstan¬ 
ces  of  the  greatest  distress. 

This  dissolute  and  fearless  conduct  foreigners  are  apt 
to  attribute  to  climate,  and  constitution  ;  may  not  the  vul¬ 
gar  being  pretty  much  neglected  in  our  exhortations  from 
the  pulpit,  be  a  conspiring  cause  ?  Our  divines  seldom 
stoop  to  their  mean  capacities ;  and  they  who  want  in¬ 
struction  most,  find  least  in  our  religious  assemblies. 

Whatever  may  become  of  the  higher  orders  of  man 
kind,  who  are  generally  possessed  of  collateral  motivej 


ESSAYS. 


460 

to  virtue,  the  vulgar  should  be  particularly  regarded, 
whose  behavior  in  civil  life  is  totally  hinged  upon  their 
hopes  and  fears.  Those  who  constitute  the  basis  of  the 
great,  fabric  of  society,  should  be  particularly  regarded ; 
for,  in  policy,  as  architecture,  ruin  is  most  fatal  when 
it  begins  from  the  bottom. 

Men  of  real  sense  and  understanding  prefer  a  prudent 
mediocrity  to  a  precarious  popularity,  and,  fearing  to  out¬ 
do  their  duty,  leave  it  half  done.  Their  discourses  from 
the  pulpit  are  generally  dry,  methodical,  and  unaffecting : 
delivered  with  the  most  insipid  calmness  ;  insomuch,  that 
should  the  peaceful  preacher  lift  his  head  over  the  cush¬ 
ion,  which  alone  he  seems  to  address,  he  might  discover 
his  audience,  instead  of  being  awakened  to  remorse,  ac¬ 
tually  sleeping  over  hi  j  methodical  and  labored  com¬ 
position. 

This  method  of  preaching  is,  however,  by  some  called 
an  address  to  reason,  and  not  to  the  passions ;  this  is 
styled  the  making  of  converts  from  conviction  ;  but  such 
are  indifferently  acquainted  with  human  nature,  who  are 
not  sensible  that  men  seldom  reason  about  their  debauch¬ 
eries  till  they  are  committed.  Reason  is  but  a  weak  an¬ 
tagonist  when  headlong  passion  dictates ;  in  all  such  cases 
we  should  arm  one  passion  against  another :  it  is  with  the 
human  mind  as  in  nature  ;  from  the  mixture  of  two  op¬ 
posites,  the  result  is  most  frequently  neutral  tranquillity. 
Those  who  attempt  to  reason  us  out  of  follies,  begin  at  the 
wrong  end,  since  the  attempt  naturally  presupposes  ua 
capable  of  reason  ;  but  to  be  made  capable  of  this,  is  one 
great  point  of  the  cure. 

There  are  but  few  talents  requisite  to  become  a  popu 


ESSAYS. 


481 


l&r  preacher ;  for  the  people  are  easily  pleased,  if  they 
perceive  any  endeavors  in  the  orator  to  please  them  ;  the 
meanest  qualifications  will  work  this  effect,  if  the  preacher 
sincerely  sets  about  it.  Perhaps  little,  indeed  very  little 
more  is  reciuired,  than  sincerity  and  assurance  ;  and  a  be 
coming  sincerity  is  always  certain  of  producing  a  becom¬ 
ing  assurance.  “  Si  vis  me  here,  dolendum  est  primum 
tlbi  ipsi,”  is  so  trite  a  quotation,  that  it  almost  demands 
an  apology  to  repeat  it ;  yet  though  all  allow  the  justice 
of  the  remark,  how  few  do  we  find  put  it  in  practice !  Our 
orators,  with  the  most  faulty  bashfulness,  seem  impressed 
rather  with  an  awe  of  their  audience,  than  with  a  just  re¬ 
spect  for  the  truths  they  are  about  to  deliver :  they,  of 
all  professions,  seem  the  most  bashful,  who  have  the 
greatest  right  to  glory  in  their  commission. 

The  French  preachers  generally  assume  all  that  dig¬ 
nity  which  becomes  men  who  are  ambassadors  fiom 
Christ ;  the  English  divines,  like  erroneous  envoys,  seem 
more  solicitous  not  to  offend  the  court  to  which  they  are 
sent,  than  to  drive  home  the  interests  of  their  employer. 
The  bishop  of  Massillon,  in  the  first  sermon  he  ever 
preached,  found  the  whole  audience,  upon  his  getting 
into  the  pulpit,  in  a  disposition  no  way  favorable  to  his 
intentions  ;  their  nods,  whispers,  or  drowsy  behavior, 
showed  him  that  there  was  no  great  profit  to  be  expected 
from  his  sowing  in  a  soil  so  improper ;  however,  he  soon 
changed  the  disposition  of  his  audience  by  his  manner  of 
beginning.  “  If,”  says  he,  “  a  cause  the  most  important 
that  could  be  conceived,  were  to  be  tried  at  the  bar  before 
qualified  judges ;  if  this  cause  interested  ourselves  in  par¬ 
ticular  ;  if  the  eyes  of  the  whole  kingdom  were  fixed 

39* 


m 


ESSAYS. 


upon  tlie  event ;  if  the  most  eminent  counsel  were  era. 
ployed  on  both  sides  ;  and  if  we  had  heard  from  our  in¬ 
fancy  of  this  yet-undetermined  trial,-— would  you  not  all 
Bit  with  due  attention,  and  warm  expectation,  to  the  plead¬ 
ings  on  each  side  ?  Would  not  all  your  hopes  and  fears 
be  hinged  on  the  final  decision  ?  and  yet,  let  me  tell  you, 
have  this  moment  a  cause  of  much  greater  importance 
before  you ;  a  cause  where  not  one  nation,  but  all  the 
world,  are  spectators ;  tried  not  before  a  fallible  tribunal, 
but  the  awful  throne  of  Heaven ;  where  not  your  tem 
poral  and  transitory  interests  are  the  subject  of  debate, 
but  your  eternal  happiness  or  misery ;  where  the  cause 
is  still  undetermined,  but,  perhaps,  the  very  moment  I  am 
speaking  may  fix  the  irrevocable  decree  that  shall  last 
forever :  and  yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  you  can  hardly 
sit  with  patience  to  hear  the  tidings  of  your  own  salva¬ 
tion  ;  I  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven,  and  yet  I  am  scarcely 
attended  to,”  etc. 

The  style,  the  abruptness  of  a  beginning  like  this,  in 
the  closet  would  appear  absurd;  but  in  the  pulpit  it  is  at¬ 
tended  with  the  most  lasting  impressions :  that  style 
which,  in  the  closet,  might  justly  be  called  flimsy,  seems 
the  true  mode  of  eloquence  here.  I  never  read  a  fine 
composition  under  the  title  of  a  sermon,  that  I  do  not 
think  the  author  has  miscalled  his  piece ;  for  the  talents 
to  be  used  in  writing  well  entirely  differ  from  those  of 
speaking  well.  The  qualifications  for  speaking,  as  has 
been  already  observed,  are  easily  acquired ;  they  are  ac¬ 
complishments  which  may  be  taken  up  by  every  candi¬ 
date  who  will  be  at  the  pains  of  stooping.  Impressed 
with  a.  sense  of  the  truths  he  is  about  to  deliver,  a  preach 


ESSAYS. 


463 


er  disregards  the  applause  or  the  contempt  of  his  audi¬ 
ence,  and  he  insensibly  assumes  a  just  and  manly  sincei» 
ity.  With  this  talent  alone  we  see  what  crowds  are 
drawn  around  enthusiasts,  even  destitute  of  common  sense  ; 
what  numbers  converted  to  Christianity.  Folly  may 
sometimes  set  an  example  for  wisdom  to  practise  ;  and  our 
regular  divines  may  borrow  instruction  from  even  Metho¬ 
dists,  who  go  their  circuits,  and  preach  prizes  among  the 
populace.  Even  Whitefield  may  be  placed  as  a  model  to 
some  of  our  young  divines ;  let  them  join  to  their  own 
good  sense  his  earnest  manner  of  delivery. 

It  will  be  perhaps  objected,  that  by  confining  the  excel¬ 
lences  of  a  preacher  to  proper  assurance,  earnestness,  and 
openness  of  style,  1  make  the  qualifications  too  trifling  for 
estimation ;  there  will  be  something  called  oratory  brought 
up  on  this  occasion  ;  action,  attitude,  grace,  elocution,  may 
be  repeated  as  absolutely  necessary  to  complete  the  char¬ 
acter  ;  but  let  us  not  be  deceived ;  common  sense  is  seldom 
swayed  by  fine  tones,  musical  periods,  just  attitudes,  or 
the  display  of  a  white  handkerchief;  oratorial  behavior, 
except  in  very  able  hands  indeed,  generally  sinks  into 
awkward  and  paltry  affectation. 

It  must  be  observed,  however,  that  these  rules  are  cal¬ 
culated  only  for  him  who  would  instruct  the  vulgar,  who 
stand  in  most  need  of  instruction ;  to  address  philosophers 
and  to  obtain  the  character  of  a  polite  preacher  among 
the  polite  —  a  much  more  useless,  though  more  sought- 
for  character  —  requires  a  different  method  of  proceeding 
All  I  shall  observe  on  this  head  is,  to  entreat  the  polemic 
divine,  in  his  controversy  with  the  deist,  to  act  ratliei 
offensively  than  to  defend  ;  to  push  home  the  grounds  of 


ESSAYS. 


464 


his  belief,  and  the  impracticability  of  theirs,  rathei  than 
to  spend  time  in  solving  the  objections  of  every  opponent. 
•*  It  is  ten  to  one,”  says  a  late  writer  on  the  art  of  war, 
u  Out  that  the  assailant  who  attacks  the  enemy  in  hia 
trenches  is  always  victorious.” 

Yet  upon  the  whole,  our  clergy  might  employ  them¬ 
selves  more  to  the  benefit  of  society,  by  declining  all 
controversy,  than  by  exhibiting  even  the  profoundest  skill 
in  polemic  disputes  ;  their  contests  with  each  other  often 
turn  on  speculative  trifles ;  and  their  disputes  with  the 
deist  are  almost  at  an  end,  since  they  can  have  no  more 
than  victory^  and  that  they  are  already  possessed  of,  a* 
their  antagonists  have  been  driven  into  a  confession  of 
the  necessity  of  revelation,  or  an  open  avowal  of  atheism. 
To  continue  the  dispute  longer  would  only  endanger  it ; 
the  sceptic  is  ever  expert  at  puzzling  a  debate  which  he 
finds  himself  unable  to  continue,  “  and,  like  an  Olympic 
boxer,  generally  fights  best  when  undermost.” 


ON  THE 

ADVANTAGES  TO  BE  DERIVED  FROM  SENDING  A 
JUDICIOUS  TRAVELLER  INTO  ASIA. 

I  have  frequently  been  amazed  at  the  ignorance  of 
almost  all  the  European  travellers,  who  have  penetrated 
any  considerable  way  eastward  into  Asia.  They  have  all 
been  influenced  either  by  motives  of  commerce  or  piety, 
and  their  accounts  are  such  as  might  reasonably  be  ex¬ 
pected  from  men  of  a  very  narrow  or  very  prejudiced 
duration  —  the  dictates  of  superstition,  or  the  result  of 


ESSAYS. 


465 

ignorance.  Is  it  not  surprising,  that,  of  sudi  a  variety  of 
adventurers,  not  one  single  philosopher  should  be  found 
among  the  number  ?  For,  as  to  the  travels  of  Gemelli. 
the  learned  are  long  agreed  that  the  whole  is  but  an  iro 
posture. 

There  is  scarce  any  country,  how  rude  or  uncultivated 
soever,  where  the  inhabitants  are  not  possessed  of  some 
peculiar  secrets,  either  in  nature  or  art,  which  might  be 
transplanted  with  success ;  thus,  for  instance,  in  Siberian 
Tartary,  the  natives  extract  a  strong  spirit  from  milk, 
which  is  a  secret  probably  unknown  to  the  chemists  in 
Europe.  In  the  most  savage  parts  of  India  they  are 
possessed  of  the  secret  of  dying  vegetable  substances 
scarlet,  and  likewise  that  of  refining  lead  into  a  metal, 
which,  for  hardness  and  color,  is  little  inferior  to  silver ; 
not  one  ot  which  secrets  but  would,  in  Europe,  make  a 
man  s  fortune.  The  power  of  the  Asiatics  in  producing 
winds,  or  bringing  down  rain,  the  Europeans  are  apt  to 
treat  as  fabulous,  because  they  have  no  instances  of  the 
like  nature  among  themselves:  but  they  would  have 
treated  the  secrets  of  gunpowder,  and  the  mariner’s  com¬ 
pass,  in  the  same  manner,  had  they  been  told  the  Chinese 
used  such  arts  before  the  invention  was  common  with 
themselves  at  home. 

Of  all  the  English  philosophers,  I  most  reverence 
Bacon,  that  great  and  hardy  genius  ;  he  it  is,  who,  undaunt¬ 
ed  by  the  seeming  difficulties  that  oppose,  prompts  human 
curiosity  to  examine  every  part  of  nature ;  and  even  ex* 
horts  man  to  try  whether  he  cannot  subject  the  tempest, 
the  thunder,  and  even  earthquakes,  to  human  control 
Oh !  had  a  man  of  his  daring  spirit,  of  his  genius,  pene* 


466 


ESSAYS 


tration,  and  learning,  travelled  to  those  countries  which 
have  been  visited  only  by  the  superstitious  and  mercena¬ 
ry,  what  might  not  mankind  expect !  Plow  would  he 
enlighten  the  regions  to  which  he  travelled  !  and  what  a 
Variety  of  knowledge  and  useful  improvement  wculd  he 
not  bring  back  in  exchange ! 

There  is  probably  no  country  so  barbarous,  that  would 
not  disclose  all  it  knew,  if  it  received  equivalent  informa¬ 
tion  ;  and  I  am  apt  to  think,  that  a  person  who  was  ready 
*o  give  more  knowledge  than  he  received,  would  be  wel¬ 
come  wherever  he  came.  All  his  care  in  travelling:  should 
only  be,  to  suit  his  intellectual  banquet  to  the  people  with 
whom  he  conversed  ;  he  should  not  attempt  to  teach  the 
unlettered  Tartar  astronomy,  nor  yet  instruct  the  polite 
Chinese  in  the  arts  of  subsistence ;  he  should  endeavor 
to  improve  the  barbarian  in  the  secrets  of  living  comfort- 
ably ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  a  more  refined  country,  in 
the  speculative  pleasures  of  science.  Plow  much  more 
nobly  would  a  philosopher,  thus  employed,  spend  his  time, 
than  by  sitting  at  home,  earnestly  intent  upon  adding  one 
star  more  to  his  catalogue,  or  one  monster  more  to  his 
collection  ;  or  still,  if  possible,  more  triflingly  sedulous,  in 
the  incatenation  of  fleas,  or  the  sculpture  of  cherry-stones. 

1  never  consider  this  subject  without  being  surprised 
that  none  of  those  societies  so  laudably  established  in 
England  for  the  promotion  of  arts  and  learning,  have  ever 
thought  of  sending  one  of  their  members  into  the  most 
eastern  parts  of  Asia,  to  make  what  discoveries  he  was 
able.  To  be  convinced  of  the  utility  of  such  an  under- 
*aking,  let  them  but  read  the  relations  of  their  own  trav¬ 
ellers.  It  will  there  be  found,  tliat  they  are  as  often 


ESSAYS. 


467 


deceived  themselves  as  they  attempt  to  deceive  others 
The  merchants  tell  us,  perhaps,  the  price  of  different 
commodities,  the  methods  of  baling  them  up,  and  the 
properest  manner  for  a  European  to  preserve  his*  health 
in  the  country.  The  missionary,  on  the  other  hand,  in¬ 
forms  us  with  what  pleasure  the  country  to  which  he  was 
sent  embraced  Christianity,  and  the  numbers  he  convert¬ 
ed  ;  what  methods  he  took  to  keep  Lent  in  a  region  where 
there  were  no  fhh,  or  the  shifts  he  made  to  celebrate  the 
rites  of  his  religion,  in  places  where  there  was  neither 
bread  nor  wine  ;  such  accounts,  with  the  usual  appendage 
of  marriages  and  funerals,  inscriptions,  rivers,  and  inoun 
tains,  make  up  the  whole  of  a  European  traveller’s  diary: 
but  as  to  all  the  secrets  of  which  the  inhabitants  are 
possessed,  those  are  universally  attributed  to  magic ;  and 
when  the  traveller  can  give  no  other  account  of  the  won¬ 
ders  he  sees  performed,  he  very  contentedly  ascribes  them 
to  the  devil. 

It  was  a  usual  observation  of  Boyle,  the  English  chem¬ 
ist,  that,  if  every  artist  would  but  discover  what  new 
observations  occurred  to  him  in  the  exercise  of  his  trade, 
philosophy  would  thence  gain  innumerable  improvements. 
It  may  be  observed  with  still  greater  justice,  that,  if  the 
aseful  knowledge  of  every  country,  howsoever  barbarous, 
was  gleaned  by  a  judicious  observer,  the  advantages  would 
be  inestimable.  Are  there  not,  even  in  Europe,  many 
useful  inventions  known  or  practised  but  in  one  place  ? 
Their  instrument,  as  an  example,  for  cutting  down  corn 
in  Germany,  is  much  more  handy  and  expeditious,  in  my 
opinion,  than  the  sickle  used  in  England.  The  cheap  and 
expeditious  manner  of  making  vinegar,  without  previous 


4fi>8 


EJ5SAY9. 


fermentation,  is  known  only  in  a  part  of  France.  Jt  sucli 
discoveries  therefore  remain  still  to  be  known  at  home, 
what  funds  of  knowledge  might  not  be  collected  in 
countries  yet  unexplored,  or  only  passed  through  by  igno¬ 
rant  travellers  in  hasty  caravans. 

The  caution  with  which  foreigners  are  received  in  Asia, 
may  be  alleged  as  an  objection  to  such  a  design.  But 
how  readily  have  several  European  merchants  found  ad¬ 
mission  into  regions  the  most  suspicious,  under  the  char¬ 
acter  of  sanjapins,  or  northern  pilgrims  ?  To  such  not 
even  China  itself  denies  access. 

To  send  out  a  traveller  properly  qualified  *or  these 
purposes,  might  be  an  object  of  national  concern  ;  it  would, 
in  some  measure,  repair  the  breaches  made  by  ambition  ; 
and  might  show  that  there  were  still  some  who  boasted  a 
greater  name  than  that  of  patriots,  who  professed  them¬ 
selves  lovers  of  men. 

The  only  difficulty  would  remain  in  choosing  a  proper 
person  for  so  arduous  an  enterprise.  He  should  be  a 
man  of  philosophical  turn ;  one  apt  to  deduce  consequen¬ 
ces  of  general  utility  from  particular  occurrences ;  neither 
swollen  with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice ;  neithei 
wedded  to  one  particular  system,  nor  instructed  only  in 
one  particular  science;  neither  wholly  a  botanist,  nor 
quite  an  antiquarian,  his  mind  should  be  tinctured  with 
miscellaneous  knowledge ;  and  his  manners  humanized 
by  an  intercourse  with  men.  He  should  be,  in  some 
measure,  an  enthusiast  to  the  design :  fond  of  travelling, 
from  a  rapid  imagination,  and  an  innate  love  of  change 
Jumished  with  a  body  capable  of  sustaining  every  fatigues 
und  a  heart  not  easily  terrified  at  danger. 


■  ■  ’•  >  ’  ■  •  ■ 

•  ‘  -V  Jffi 


ESSAYS. 


469 


A  REVERIE  AT  THE  BOAR’S-IIEA D  TAVERN,  IN 

EAST  CHEAP. 


The  improvements  we  make  in  mental  acquirements 
j>nly  render  us  each  day  more  sensible  of  the  defects  of 
smr  constitution  :  with  this  in  view,  therefore,  let  us  often 
recur  to  the  amusements  of  youth ;  endeavor  to  forget  age 
and  wisdom,  and,  as  far  as  innocence  goes,  be  as  much  p 
boy  as  the  best  of  them. 

Let  idle  decfaimers  mourn  over  the  degeneracy  of  the 
age,  but,  in  my  opinion,  every  age  is  the  same.  This  I 
am  sure  of,  that  man,  in  every  season,  is  a  poor,  fretful 
hein(r,  with  no  other  means  to  escape  the  calamities  of 
the  times,  hut  by  endeavoring  to  forget  them ;  for,  if  he 
attempts  to  resist,  he  is  certainly  undone.  If  I  feel  pov¬ 
erty  and  pain,  I  am  not  so  hardy  as  to  quarrel  with  the 
executioner,  even  while  under  correction ;  I  find  myself 
no  way  disposed  to  make  tine  speeches,  while  I  am  mak¬ 
ing  wry  faces.  In  a  word,  let  me  drink  when  the  fit  is 
*n,  to  make  me  insensible  ;  and  drink  when  it  is  over,  for 
joy  that  I  feel  pain  no  longer. 

The  character  of  old  FalstafF,  even  with  all  his  faults, 
gives  me  more  consolation  than  the  most  studied  efforts 
of  wisdom :  I  here  behold  an  agreeable  old  fellow,  forget¬ 
ting  age,  and  showing  me  the  way  to  be  young  at  sixty- 
five.  Sure  I  an?  well  able  to  be  as  merry,  though  not  so 
comical,  as  he.  Is  it  not  in  my  power  to  have,  though 
not  so  much  wit,  at  least  as  much  vivacity  ?  Age,  care, 
wisdom,  reflection,  begone !  —  I  give  you  to  the  winds. 
Let’s  have  t’other  bottle:  here’s  to  the  memory  of 
Shakspeare,  FalstafF,  and  all  the  merry  men  of  Kasi> 
cheap. 


40 


470 


ESSAYS. 


Such  were  the  reflections  that  naturally  arose  while  J 
sat  at  the  Boar’s-head  tavern,  still  kept  at  Eastcheap, 
Here,  by  a  pleasant  lire,  in  the  very  room  where  old 
Falstaff  cracked  his  jokes,  in  the  very  chair  which  was 
sometimes  honored  by  Prince  Henry,  and  sometimes  pol¬ 
luted  by  his  immoral,  merry  companions,  I  sat  and  rumi¬ 
nated  on  the  follies  of  youth  ;  wished  to  be  young  again ; 
but  was  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  life  while  it  lasted, 
and  now  and  then  compared  past  and  present  times  to¬ 
gether.  I  considered  myself  as  the  only  living  repre¬ 
sentative  of  the  old  knight ;  and  transported  my  imagina¬ 
tion  back  to  the  times  when  the  prince  and  he  gave  life 
to  the  revel,  and  made  even  debauchery  not  disgusting. 
The  room  also  conspired  to  throw  my  reflection  back  into 
antiquity:  the  oak  floor,  the  Gothic  windows,  and  the 
ponderous  chimney-piece,  had  long  withstood  the  tooth 
of  time  :  the  watchmen  had  gone  twelve  :  my  companions 
had  all  stolen  off,  and  none  now  remained  with  me  but 
the  landlord.  F rom  him  1  could  have  wished  to  know 
the  history  of  a  tavern  that  had  such  a  long  succession 
of  customers ;  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  an  account 
of  this  kind  would  be  a  pleasing  contrast  of  the  manners 
of  different  ages ;  but  my  landlord  could  give  me  no  in¬ 
formation.  He  continued  to  doze,  and  sot,  and  tell  a 
tedious  story,  as  most  other  landlords  usually  do ;  and, 
though  he  said  nothing,  yet  was  never  silent ;  one  good 
joke  followed  another  good  joke,  and  the  best  joke  of  all 
was  generally  begun  towards  the  end  of  a  bottle.  I 
found  at  last,  however,  his  wine  and  his  conversation 
operate  by  degrees :  lie  insensibly  began  to  alter  his  ap* 
pearanco  His  cravat  seemed  quilled  into  a  ruff,  and  his 


ESSAYS. 


471 


breeches  swelled  into  a  fardingale.  I  now  fancied  him 
changing  sexes  ;  and,  as  my  eyes  began  to  close  in  slum¬ 
ber,  I  imagined  my  fat  landlord  actually  converted  into 
as  fat  a  landlady.  However,  sleep  made  but  few  changes 
in  my  situation  :  the  tavern,  the  apartment,  and  the  table, 
continued  as  before ;  nothing  suffered  mutation  but  my 
host,  who  was  fairly  altered  into  a  gentlewoman,  whom  I 
knew  £0  be  Dame  Quickly,  mistress  of  this  tavern  in  the 
days  of  Sir  John ;  and  the  liquor  we  were  drinking,  which 
seemed  converted  into  sack  and  sugar. 

“  My  dear  Mrs.  Quickly,”  cried  I,  (for  I  knew  her 
perfectly  well  at  first  sight),  “  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see 
you.  How  have  you  left  Falstaff,  Pistol,  and  the  rest  of 
our  friends  below  stairs  ?  Brave  and  hearty,  I  hope  ?” 
“  In  good  sooth,”  replied  she,  “  he  did  deserve  to  live  for 
ever ;  but  he  maketh  foul  work  on’t  where  he  hath  flitted. 
Queen  Proserpine  and  he  have  quarrelled,  for  his  attempt¬ 
ing  a  rape  upon  her  divinity  ;  and  were  it  not  that  she 
still  had  bowels  of  compassion,  it  more  than  seems  prob¬ 
able  he  might  have  now  been  sprawling  in  Tartarus.” 

I  now  found  that  spirits  still  preserve  tl*e  frailties  of  the 
flesh ;  and  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  criticism  and 
dreaming,  ghosts  have  been  known  to  be  guilty  of  even 
more  than  Platonic  affection :  wherefore,  as  I  found  her 
too  much  moved  on  such  a  topic  to  proceed,  I  was  resolv¬ 
ed  to  change  the  subject;  and,  desiring  she  would  pledge 
me  in  a  bumper,  observed  with  a  sigh,  that  our  sack  was 
nothing  now  to  what  it  was  in  former  days.  “Ah,  Mrs. 
Quickly,  those  were  merry  times  when  you  drew  sack  for 
Prince  Henry:  men  were  twice  as  strong,  and  twice  as 
wise,  arid  much  braver,  and  ten  thousand  times  more 


i 


72  ESSAYS* 

charitable,  than  now.  Those  were  the  times !  The  battle 
of  Agincourt  was  a  victory  indeed !  Ever  since  that,  we 
have  only  been  degenerating ;  and  I  have  lived  to  see 
the  day  when  drinking  is  no  longer  fashionable.  When 
men  wear  clean  shirts,  and  women  show  their  necks  and 
arms,  all  are  degenerated,  Mrs.  Quickly ;  and  we  shall 
probably,  in  another  century  y  be  frittered  away  into  beaux 
or  monkeys.  Had  you  been  on  earth  to  see  what  I  have 
seen,  it  would  congeal  all  the  blood  in  your  body  (your 
soul,  I  mean).  Why,  our  very  nobility  now  have  the  in¬ 
tolerable  arrogance,  in  spite  of  what  is  every  day  remon¬ 
strated  from  the  press ;  our  very  nobility,  I  say,  have  the 
assurance  to  frequent  assemblies,  and  presume  to  be  as 
merry  as  the  vulgar.  See,  my  very  friends  have  scarce 
manhood  enough  to  sit  till  eleven ;  and  I  only  am  left  to 
make  a  night  on’t.  Pr’ythee  do  me  the  favor  to  console 
me  a  little  for  their  absence  by  the  story  of  your  own 
adventures,  or  the  history  of  the  tavern  where  we  ara 
now  sitting.  I  fancy  the  narrative  may  have  something 
singular.” 

“  Observe  this  apartment,”  interrupted  my  companion, 
of  neat  device  and  excellent  workmanship.  In  this  room 
I  have  lived,  child,  woman,  and  ghost,  more  than  three 
hundred  years ;  I  am  ordered  by  Pluto  to  keep  an  annual 
register  of  every  transaction  that  passeth  here :  and  I 
have  whilom  compiled  three  hundred  tomes,  which  eftsoons 
may  be  submitted  to  thy  regards.”  “  None  of  your 
whiloms  nor  eftsoons,  Mrs.  Quickly,  if  you  please,”  I  re¬ 
plied  ;  “  I  know  you  can  talk  every  vvliit  as  well  as  I  can 
for,  as  you  have  lived  here  so  long,  it  is  but  natural  to 
suppose  you  should  learn  the  conversation  of  the  company 


ES3ATS. 


473 


Believe  me,  dame,  at  best,  you  have  neither  too  mu^h 
Bense,  nor  too  much  language,  to  spare  ;  so  give  me  botn 
as  well  as  you  can :  but  first,  my  service  to  you ;  old 
women  should  water  their  clay  a  little  now  and  then;  and 
now  to  your  story.” 

“The  story  of  my  own  adventures.”  replied  the  vision. 
“  is  but  short  and  unsatisfactory ;  for,  believe  me,  Mr. 
Rigmarole,  believe  me,  a  woman  with  a  butt,  of  sack  at 
her  elbow  is  never  long-lived.  Sir  Johns  death  afhicted 
me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  sincerely  believe,  to  drown 
sorrow,  I  drank  more  liquor  myself  than  I  drew  for  my 
customers :  ray  grief  was  sincere,  and  the  sack  was  ex¬ 
cellent.  The  prior  of  a  neighboring  convent  (for  our 
priors  then  had  as  much  power  as  a  Middlesex  justice 
now),  he,  I  say,  it  was  who  gave  me  license  for  keeping 
a  disorderly  house ;  upon  condition  that  I  should  never 
make  hard  bargains  with  the  clergy  :  that  he  should  have 
a  bottle  of  sack  every  morning,  and  the  liberty  of  con¬ 
fessing  which  of  my  girls  he  thought  proper  in  private 
every  night.  X  had  continued  for  several  yeais  to  pay 
this  tribute ;  and  he,  it  must  be  confessed,  continued  as 
rigorously  to  exact  it,  I  grew  old  insensibly ;  my  cus¬ 
tomers  continued,  however,  to  compliment  my  looks  while 
I  was  by,  but  I  could  hear  them  say  I  was  wearing  when 
my  back  was  turned.  The  prior,  however,  still  was  con¬ 
stant,  and  so  were  half  his  convent ;  but  one  fatal  morning 
he  missed  the  usual  beverage,  for  I  had  incautiously  diunk 
over-night  the  last  bottle  myself.  What  will  you  have 
m ’t  ?  The  very  next  day  Doll  Tearsheet  and  I  were 
to  the  house  of  correction,  and  accused  of  keeping  a 

40* 


474 


ESSAYS. 


low  bawdy-house.  In  short,  we  were  so  well  purified 
there  with  stripes,  mortification  and  penance,  that  we  were 
afterward  utterly  unfit  for  worldly  conversation  :  though 
sack  would  have  killed  me,  had  I  stuck  to  it,  yet  I  soon 
died  for  want  of  a  drop  of  something  comfortable,  and 
fairly  left  my  body  to  the  care  of  the  beadle. 

“  Such  is  my  own  history ;  but  that  of  the  tavern,  where 
I  have  ever  since  been  stationed,  affords  greater  variety. 
In  the  history  of  this,  which  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  Lou¬ 
don,  you  may  view  the  different  manners,  pleasures,  and 
follies  of  men,  at  different  periods.  You  will  find  man¬ 
kind  neither  better  nor  worse  now  than  formerly ;  the  vices 
of  an  uncivilized  people  are  generally  more  detestable, 
though  not  so  frequent,  as  those  in  polite  society.  It  is 
the  same  luxury  which  formerly  stuffed  your  alderman 
with  plum-porridge,  and  now  crams  him  with  turtle.  It 
is  the  same  low  ambition  that  formerly  induced  a  courtier 
to  give  up  his  religion  to  please  his  king,  and  now  per¬ 
suades  him  to  give  up  his  conscience  to  please  his  minis¬ 
ter.  It  is  the  same  vanity  that  formerly  stained  our 
ladies’  cheeks  and  necks  with  woad,  and  now  paints  them 
with  carmine.  Your  ancient  Briton  formerly  powdered 
his  hair  with  red  earth,  like  brick-dust,  in  order  to  appear 
frightful ;  your  modern  Briton  cuts  his  hair  on  the  crown, 
and  plasters  it  with  hogs’-lard  and  flour ;  and  this  to  make 
him  look  killing.  It  is  the  same  vanity,  the  same  folly, 
and  the  same  vice,  only  appearing  different,  as  viewed 
through  the  glass  of  fashion.  In  a  word,  all  mankind 
are  a  — - - ” 

“  Sure  the  woman  is  dreaming,”  interrupted  I — “  .None 


s 


ESSAYS 


475 


« 


of  your  reflections,  Mrs.  Quickly,  if  you  love  me  ;  they 
only  give  me  the  spleen.  Tell  me  your  history  at  onca 
1  love  stories,  but  hate  reasoning.” 

“  If  you  please,  then,  sir,”  returned  my  companion,  “  I’ll 
mad  you  an  abstract,  which  I  made,  of  the  three  hundred 


yolumes  I  mentioned  just  now  : 

“  My  body  was  no  sooner  laid  in  the  dust,  than  the 
prior  and  several  of  his  convent  came  to  purify  the  tavern 
from  the  pollutions  with  which  they  said  I  had  filled  it 
Masses  were  said  in  every  room,  relics  were  exposed 
upon  every  piece  of  furniture,  and  the  whole  house  washed 
with  a  deluge  of  holy  water.  My  habitation  was  soon 
converted  into  a  monastery;  instead  of  customers  now 
applying  for  sack  and  sugar,  my  rooms  were  crowded  with 
images,  relics,  saints,  whores,  and  friars.  Instead  of  being 
a  scene  of  occasional  debauchery,  it  was  now  filled  with 
continued  lewdness.  The  prior  led  the  fashion,  and  the 
whole  convent  imitated  his  pious  example.  Matrons 
came  hither  to  confess  their  sins,  and  to  commit  new 
Virgins  came  hither  who  seldom  went  virgins  away.  Noi 
was  this  a  convent  peculiarly  wicked ;  every  convent  at  that 
period  was  equally  fond  of  pleasure,  and  gave  a  boundless 
loose  to  appetite.  The  laws  allowed  it ;  each  priest  had  a 
right  to  a  favorite  companion,  and  a  power  of  discarding 
her  as  often  as  he  pleased.  The  laity  grumbled,  quar¬ 
relled  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  hated  their 
confessors,  and  maintained  them  in  opulence  and  ease. 
These,  these  were  happy  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole :  these  wrere 
times  of  piety,  bravery,  and  simplicity !  ”  —  “  Not  so  very 
happy,  neither,  good  madam ;  pretty  much  like  the  pro 


* 


476  ESSAYS. 

(tent :  those  that  labor,  starve  ;  and  those  that  do  nothing 
wear  fine  clothes  and  live  in  luxury.” 

u  In  this  manner  the  fathers  lived,  for  some  years,  with* 
out  molestation ;  they  transgressed,  confessed  themselves 
to  each  other,  and  were  forgiven.  One  evening,  however., 
our  prior  keeping  a  lady  of  distinction  somewhat  too  long 
at  confession,  her  husband  unexpectedly  came  upon  thera^ 
and  testified  all  the  indignation  which  was  natural  upon 
such  an  occasion.  The  prior  assured  the  gentleman  that 
it  was  the  devil  who  had  put  it  into  his  heart ;  and  the 
lady  was  very  certain,  that  she  was  under  the  influence  of 
magic,  or  she  could  never  have  behaved  in  so  unfaithful  a 
manner.  The  husband,  however,  was  not  to  be  put  off 
by  such  evasions,  but  summoned  both  before  the  tribunal 
of  justice.  His  proofs  were  flagrant,  and  he  expected 
large  damages.  Such,  indeed,  he  had  a  right  to  expect, 
were  the  tribunals  of  those  days  constituted  in  the  same 
manner  as  they  are  now.  The  cause  of  the  priest  was 
to  be  tried  before  an  assembly  of  priests ;  and  a  layman 
was  to  expect  redress  only  from  their  impartiality  and 
candor.  What  plea  then  do  you  think  the  prior  made  to 
obviate  this  accusation  ?  He  denied  the  fact,  and  chal¬ 
lenged  the  plaintiff  to  try  the  merits  of  their  cause  by 
single  combat.  It  was  a  little  hard,  you  may  be  sure, 
upon  the  poor  gentleman,  not  only  to  be  made  a  cuckold, 
but  to  be  obliged  to  fight  a  duel  into  the  bargain  ;  yet 
such  was  the  justice  of  the  times.  The  prior  threw  down 
his  glove,  and  the  injured  husband  was  obliged  to  take  it 
up,  in  token  of  his  accepting  the  challenge.  Upon  tins 
the  priest  supplied  his  champion,  for  it  was  not  lawful  foi 


ESSAYS. 


4'* 


the  clergy  to  fight;  and  the  defendant  and  plaintiff,  ac¬ 
cording  to  custom,  were  put  in  prison ;  both  ordered  to 
fast  and  pray,  every  method  being  previously  used 
induce  both  to  a  confession  of  the  truth.  After  a  month’s 
imprisonment,  the  hair  of  each  was  cut,  their  bodies 
anointed  with  oil,  the  field  of  battle  appointed,  and 
guarded  by  soldiers,  while  his  majesty  presided  over  the 
whole  in  person.  Both  the  champions  were  sworn  not  to 
Beek  victory  either  by  fraud  or  magic.  They  prayed  and 
confessed  upon  their  knees  ;  and,  after  these  ceremonies, 
the  rest  was  left  to  the  courage  and  conduct  of  the  com¬ 
batants.  As  the  champion  whom  the  prior  had  pitched 
upon,  had  fought  six  or  eight  times  upon  similar  occasions, 
it  was  no  way  extraordinary  to  find  him  victorious  in  the 
present  combat.  In  short,  the  husband  was  discomfited ; 
he  was  taken  from  the  field  of  battle,  stripped  to  his  shirt, 
and,  after  one  of  his  legs  was  cut  off,  as  justice  ordained 
in  such  cases,  he  was  hanged  as  a  terror  to  future  offenders. 
These,  these  were  the  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole !  you  see  how 
much  more  just,  and  wise,  and  valiant,  our  ancestors  were 
than  we.”  “  I  rather  fancy,  madam,  that  the  times  then 
were  pretty  much  like  our  own ;  where  a  multiplicity  of 
laws  give  a  judge  as  much  power  as  a  want  of  law ;  since 
he  is  ever  sure  to  find  among  the  number  some  to  coun¬ 
tenance  his  partiality.” 

“  Our  convent,  victorious  over  their  enemies,  now  gave 
a  loose  to  every  demonstration  of  joy.  The  lady  became 
a  nun,  the  prior  was  made  a  bishop,  and  three  Wickliffitea 
were  burned  in  the  illuminations  and  fireworks  that  were 
made  on  the  present  occasion.  Our  convent  now  began 
to  enjoy  a  very  high  degree  of  reputation.  There  was  not 


478 


ESSAYS. 


one  in  London  that  had  the  character  of  hating  heretics 
bo  much  as  ours.  Ladies  of  the  first  distinction  chose 
from  our  convent  their  confessors ;  in  short,  it  flourished, 
and  might  have  flourished  to  this  hour,  but  for  a  fatal 
accident,  which  terminated  in  its  overthrow.  The  lady 
whom  the  prior  had  placed  in  a  nunnery,  and  whom  he 
continued  to  visit  for  some  time  with  great  punctuality, 
began  at  last  to  perceive  that  she  was  quite  forsaken, 
Secluded  from  conversation,  as  usual,  she  now  entertained 
the  visions  of  a  devotee ;  found  herself  strangely  dis¬ 
turbed;  but  hesitated  in  determining,  whether  she  was 
possessed  by  an  angel  or  a  demon.  She  was  not  long  in 
suspense :  for,  upon  vomiting  a  large  quantity  of  crooked 
pins,  and  finding  the  palms  of  her  hands  turned  outwards, 
she  quickly  concluded  that  she  was  possessed  by  the  devil. 
She  soon  lost  entirely  the  use  of  speech ;  and  when  she 
seemed  to  speak,  every  body  that  was  present  perceived 
that  her  voice  was  not  her  own,  but.  that  of  the  devil 
within  her.  In  short,  she  was  bewitched ;  and  all  the 
difficulty  lay  in  determining  who  it  could  be  that  bewitched 
her.  The  nuns  and  the  monks  all  demanded  the  ma¬ 
gician’s  name,  but  the  devil  made  no  reply  ;  for  he  knew 
they  had  no  authority  to  ask  questions.  By  the  rules  of 
witchcraft,  when  an  evil  spirit  has  taken  possession,  ho 
day  refuse  to  answer  any  questions  asked  him,  unless 
they  are  put  by  a  bishop,  and  to  these  he  is  obliged  to 
reply.  A  bishop,  therefore,  was  sent  for,  and  now  the 
whole  secret  came  out :  the  devil  reluctantly  owned  that 
he  was  a  servant  of  the  prior  ;  that  by  his  command  he 
resided  in  his  present  habitation ;  and  that,  without  his 
command,  he  was  resolved  to  keep  in  possession.  The 


ESSAYS. 


479 


bishop  was  an  able  exorcist ;  he  drove  the  devil  out  hy 
force  ot  mystical  arms ;  the  prior  was  arraigned  for  witch* 
cr.ift ;  the  witnesses  were  strong  and  numerous  against 
him,  not  less  than  fourteen  persons  being  by  who  heard 
the  devil  speak  Latin.  There  was  no  resisting  such  a 
cloud  of  witnesses ;  the  prior  was  condemned ;  and  he 
who  had  assisted  at  so  many  burnings,  was  burned  him  ¬ 
self  in  turn.  These  were  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole ;  the 
people  of  those  times  were  not  infidels,  as  now',  but  sincere 
believers !”  —  “  Equally  faulty  with  ourselves,  they  be¬ 
lieved  what  the  devil  was  pleased  to  tell  them ;  and  we 
seem  resolved,  at  last,  to  believe  neither  God  nor  devil/* 
“  After  such  a  stain  upon  the  convent,  it  was  not  to  be 
supposed  it  could  subsist  any  longer ;  the  fathers  were 
01  dei  ed  to  decamp,  and  the  house  \vras  once  again  con¬ 
verted  into  a  tavern.  The  king  conferred  it  on  one  of 
his  cast-off  mistresses ;  she  was  constituted  landlady  by 
royal  authority ;  and,  as  the  tavern  was  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  of  the  court,  and  the  mistress  a  very  polite  woman, 
it  began  to  have  more  business  than  ever,  and  sometimes 
took  not  less  than  four  shillings  a-day. 

u  But  perhaps  you  are  desirous  of  knowing  what  were 
the  peculiar  qualifications  of  women  of  fashion  at  that 
period ;  and  in  a  description  of  the  present  landlady,  you 
will  have  a  tolerable  idea  of  all  the  rest.  This  lady  was 
the  daughter  of  a  nobleman,  and  received  such  an  educa¬ 
tion  in  the  country  as  became  her  quality,  beauty,  and 
great  expectations.  She  could  make  shifts  and  hose  for 
herself  and  all  the  servants  of  the  family,  when  she  was 
twelve  years  old.  She  knew  the  names  of’  the  four-and- 
twenty  letters,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  bewitch  her 


480 


ESSAYS. 


and  tliis  was  a  greater  piece  of  learning  than  any  lady  in 
the  whole  country  could  pretend  to.  She  was  always  up 
early,  and  saw  breakfast  served  in  the  great  hall  by  six 
o’clock.  At  this  scene  of  festivity  she  generally  improved 
good-humor,  by  telling  her  dreams,  relating  stories  of 
spirits,  several  of  which  she  herself  had  seen,  and  one  of 
which  she  was  reported  to  have  killed  with  a  black-liafted 
knife.  From  hence  she  usually  went  to  make  pastry  in 
the  larder,  and  here  she  was  followed  by  her  sweet-hearts, 
who  were  much  helped  on  in  conversation  by  struggling 
with  her  for  kisses.  About  ten,  miss  generally  went  to 
play  at  hot-cockles  and  blindman’s  buff  in  the  parlor; 
and  when  the  young  folks  (for  they  seldom  played  at  hot- 
cockles  when  grown  old)  were  tired  of  such  amusements, 
the  gentlemen  entertained  miss  with  the  history  of  their 
greyhounds,  bear-baitings,  and  victories  at  cudgel-play¬ 
ing.  If  the  weather  was  fine,  they  ran  at  the  ring,  or 
allot  at  butts,  while  miss  held  in  her  hand  a  riband,  with 
which  she  adorned  the  conqueror.  Her  mental  qualifica¬ 
tions  were  exactly  fitted  to  her  external  accomplish¬ 
ments.  Before  she  was  fifteen  she  could  tell  the  story 
of  Jack  the  Giant  Killer ;  could  name  every  mountain 
that  was  inhabited  by  fairies ;  knew  a  witch  at  first  sight ; 
and  could  repeat  four  Latin  prayers  without  a  prompter. 
Her  dress  was  perfectly  fashionable  ;  her  arms  and  her 
hair  were  completely  covered  ;  a  monstrous  muff  was 
put  round  her  neck,  so  that  her  head  seemed  like  that  of 
John  the  Baptist  placed  in  a  charger.  In  short,  when 
completely  equipped,  her  appearance  was  so  very  modest, 
that  she  discovered  little  more  than  her  nose.  These 
<*ere  the  times,  Mr  Rigmarole,  when  every  lady  that  had 


KS3AYS.  4«S1 

ft  good  no3e  might  set  up  lor  a  beauty  ;  when  every  woman 
that  could  tell  stories  might  be  cried  up  for  a  wit.”  « I 
am  as  much  displeased  at  those  dresses  which  conceal  too 
much,  as  at  those  which  discover  too  much  :  I  am  equally 
an  enemy  to  a  female  dunce,  or  a  female  pedant.” 

“You  may  be  sure  that  miss  chose  a  husband  with  qual¬ 
ifications  resembling  her  own;  she  pitched  upon  a  courtier 
equally  remarkable  for  hunting  and  drinking,  who  had 
given  several  proofs  of  his  great  virility  among  the 
daughters  of  his  tenants  and  domestics.  They  fell  in 
love  at  first  sight  (for  such  was  the  gallantry  of  the  times), 
were  married,  came  to  court,  and  madam  appeared  with 
superior  qualifications.  The  king  was  struck  with  her 
beauty.  All  property  was  at  the  king’s  command ;  the 
husband  was  obliged  to  resign  all  pretensions  in  his  wife 
to  the  sovereign  whom  God  anointed,  to  commit  adultery 
where  he  thought  proper.  The  king  loved  her  for  some 
time ;  but,  at  length,  repenting  of  his  misdeeds,  and  insti¬ 
gated  by  his  father  confessor,  from  a  principle  of  con¬ 
science,  removed  her  from  his  levee  to  the  bar  of  this 
tavern,  and  took  a  new  mistress  in  her  stead.  Let  it  not 
surprise  you  to  behold  the  mistress  of  a  king  degraded  to 
so  humble  an  office.  As  the  ladies  had  no  mental  accom¬ 
plishments,  a  good  face  was  enough  to  raise  them  to  the 
royal  couch ;  and  she  who  was  this  day  a  royal  mistress, 
might  the  next,  when  her  beauty  palled  upon  enjoyment, 
be  doomed  to  infamy  and  want. 

“  Under  the  care  of  this  lady,  the  tavern  grew  into 
great  reputation;  the  courtiers  had  not  yet  learned  to 
game,  but  they  paid  it  oft*  by  drinking ;  drunkenness  is 
ever  the  vice  of  a  barbarous,  and  gaming  of  a  luxurious 

41 


4.32  ESSAYS. 

age.  They  had  not  such  frequent  entertainments  as  the 
moderns  have,  hut  were  more  expensive  and  more  luxu¬ 
rious  in  those  they  had.  All  their  fooleries  were  more 
elaborate,  and  more  admired  by  the  great  and  the  vulgar, 
than  now.  A  courtier  lias  been  known  to  spend  his  whole 
fortune  at  a  single  combat ;  a  king  to  mortgage  his  domin¬ 
ions  to  furnish  out  the  frippery  of  a  tournament.  There 
were  certain  days  appointed  for  riot  and  debauchery,  and 
to  be  sober  at  such  times  was  reputed  a  crime.  Kings 
themselves  set  the  example ;  and  I  have  seen  monarclis 
in  this  room  drunk  before  the  entertainment  was  half 
concluded.  These  were  the  times,  sir,  when  the  kings 
kept  mistresses,  and  got  drunk  in  public ;  they  were  too 
plain  and  simple  in  those  happy  times  to  hide  their  vices, 
and  act  the  hypocrite  as  now.”  “  Lord,  Mrs.  Quickly  !” 
interrupting  her,  “  I  expected  to  hear  a  story,  and  here 
you  are  going  to  tell  me  I  know  not  what  of  times  and 
vices ;  pr’ythee  let  me  entreat  thee  once  more  to  waive 
reflections,  and  give  thy  history  without  deviation.” 

“  No  lady  upon  earth,”  continued  my  visionary  corres¬ 
pondent,  “knew  how  to  put  off  her  damaged  wine  or 
women  with  more  art  than  she.  When  these  grew  flak 
or  those  paltry,  it  was  but  changing  their  names ;  the 
wine  became  excellent,  and  the  girls  agreeable.  She  was 
also  possessed  of  the  engaging  leer,  the  chuck  under  the 
chin,  winked  at  a  double  entendre,  could  nick  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  calling  for  something  comfortable,  and  perfectly 
understood  the  distinct  moments  when  to  withdraw.  The 
gallants  of  those  times  pretty  much  resembled  the  bloods 
of  ours ;  they  were  fond  of  pleasure,  but  quite  ignorant 
of  the  art  of  refining  upon  it:  thus  a  court-bawd  of  those 


ESSAYS. 


483 


times  resembled  the  common,  low-lived  harridan  of  a 
modern  bagnio.  Witness,  ye  powers  of  debauchery !  how 
often  have  I  been  present  at  the  various  appearances  of 
drunkenness,  riot,  guilt,  and  brutality.  A  tavern  is  a  true 
picture  of  human  infirmity ;  in  history  we  find  only  one 
side  of  the  age  exhibited  to  our  view ;  but  in  the  accounts 
of  a  tavern  we  see  every  age  equally  absurd  and  equally 
vicious. 

Upon  this  lady’s  decease,  the  tavern  was  successively 
occupied  by  adventurers,  bullies,  pimps,  and  gamesters 
Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  reign  of  H  enry  VII.  gam¬ 
ing  was  more  universally  practised  in  England  than  even 
now.  Kings  themselves  have  been  known  to  play  off, 
at  primero,  not  only  all  the  money  and  jewels  they  could 
part  with,  but  the  very  images  in  churches.  The  last 
Henry  played  away,  in  this  very  room,  not  only  the  four 
great  bells  of  St.  Paul’s  cathedral,  but  the  fine  image  of 
St.  Paul,  which  stood  upon  the  top  of  the  spire,  to  Sir 
Miles  Partridge,  who  took  them  down  the  next  day,  and 
sold  them  by  auction.  Have  you  then  any  cause  to  re¬ 
gret  being  bom  in  the  times  you  now  live  in,  or  do  you 
still  believe  that  human  nature  continues  to  run  on  de¬ 
clining  every  age?  If  we  observe  the  actions  of  the 
busy  part  of  mankind,  your  ancestors  will  be  found  infi¬ 
nitely  more  gross,  servile,  and  even  dishonest,  than  y  :>il 
If,  forsaking  history,  we  only  trace  them  in  their  hours  of 
amusement  and  dissipation,  we  shall  find  them  more  sen¬ 
sual,  more  entirely  devoted  to  pleasure,  and  infinitely 
more  selfish. 

“The  last  hostess  of  note  I  find  upon  record  was  Jane 
Rouse.  She  was  born  among  the  lower  ranks  of  tlifl 


484 


ESSAYS. 


people ;  and  by  frugality  and  extreme  complaisance,  con 
drived  to  acquire  a  moderate  fortune :  this  she  might  have 
enjoyed  for  many  years,  had  she  not  unfortunately  quar¬ 
relled  with  one  of  her  neighbors,  a  woman  who  was  in 
high  repute  for  sanctity  through  the  whole  parish.  In 
the  times  of  which  I  speak,  two  women  seldom  quarrelled 
that  one  did  not  accuse  the  other  of  witchcraft,  and  she 
who  first  contrived  to  vomit  crooked  pins  was  sure  to  come 
off  victorious.  The  scandal  of  a  modern  tea-table  differs 
widely  from  the  scandal  of  former  times ;  the  fascination 
of  a  lady’s  eyes,  at  present,  is  regarded  as  a  compliment ; 
but  if  a  lady  formerly  should  be  accused  of  having  witch¬ 
craft  in  her  eyes,  it  were  much  better,  both  for  her  soul 
and  body,  that  she  had  no  eyes  at  all. 

“  In  short,  Jane  Rouse  was  accused  of  witchcraft,  and 
though  she  made  the  best  defence  she  could,  it  was  all  to 
no  purpose ;  she  was  taken  from  her  own  bar  to  the  bar 
of  the  Old  Bailey,  condemned,  and  executed  accordingly 
These  were  times,  indeed !  when  even  women  could  not 
scold  in  safety. 

“  Since  her  time  the  tavern  underwent  several  revolu¬ 
tions,  according  te  the  spirit  of  the  times,  or  the  disposi¬ 
tion  of  the  reigning  monarch.  It  was  this  day  a  brothel, 
and  the  next  a  conventicle  for  enthusiasts.  It  was  one 
year  noted  for  harboring  whigs,  and  the  next  infamous 
for  a  retreat  to  tories.  Some  years  ago  it  was  in  high 
vogue,  but  at  present  it  seems  declining.  This  only  may 
be  remarked  in  general,  that  whenever  taverns  flourish 
most,  the  times  are  then  most  extravagant  and  luxurious.” 
“Lord,  Mrs.  Quickly!”  interrupted  I,  “you  have  really 
Icceived  me ;  I  expected  a  romance,  and  here  you  have 


ESSAYS. 


485 


been  this  half-hour  giving  me  only  a  description  of  the 
spirit  of  the  times ;  if  you  have  nothing  but  tedious  re¬ 
marks  to  communicate,  seek  some  other  hearer  ;  I  am 
determined  to  hearken  only  to  stories.” 

I  had  scarce  concluded,  when  my  eyes  and  ears  seemed 
opened  to  my  landlord,  who  had  been  all  this  while  giving 
me  an  account  of  the  repairs  he  had  made  in  the  house, 
and  was  now  got  into  the  story  of  the  cracked  glass  ia 
the  dining-room. 


ON  QUACK  DOCTORS. 

Whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  the  English  in  other 
sciences,  they  seem  peculiarly  excellent  in  the  art  of 
healing.  There  is  scarcely  a  disorder  incident  to  human¬ 
ity,  against  which  our  advertising  doctors  are  not  possessed 
with  a  most  infallible  antidote.  The  professors  of  other 
arts  confess  the  inevitable  intricacy  of  things ;  talk  with 
doubt,  and  decide  with  hesitation  :  but  doubting  is  entire¬ 
ly  unknown  in  medicine  :  the  advertising  professors  here 
delight  in  cases  of  difficulty  ;  be  the  disorder  ever  so 
desperate  or  radical,  you  will  lind  numbers  in  every  street, 
who,  by  levelling  a  pill  at  the  part  affected,  promise  a 
certain  cure  without  loss  of  time,  knowledge  of  a  bedfel¬ 
low,  or  hinderance  of  business. 

When  I  consider  the  assiduity  of  this  profession,  their 
benevolence  amazes  me.  They  not  only,  in  general,  give 
their  medicines  for  half  value,  but  use  the  most  persua¬ 
sive  remonstrances  to  induce  the  sick  to  come  and  be 
cured.  Sure  there  must  be  something  strangely  obstinate 

41* 


486 


ESSAYS. 


In  an  English  patient  who  refuses  so  much  health  upon 
such  easy  terms !  Does  he  take  a  pride  in  being  bloat 
ed  with  a  dropsy  ?  does  he  find  pleasure  in  the  alterna¬ 
tions  of  an  intermittent  fever  ?  or  feel  as  much  satisfaction 
in  nursing  up  his  gout,  as  he  found  pleasure  in  acquiring 
it  ?  He  must ;  otherwise  he  would  never  reject  such  re¬ 
peated  assurances  of  instant  relief.  What  can  be  more 
convincing  than  the  manner  in  which  the  sick  are  invited 
to  be  well  ?  The  doctor  first  begs  the  most  earnest  atten¬ 
tion  of  the  public  to  what  he  is  going  to  propose;  he 
solemnly  affirms  the  pill  was  never  found  to  want  suc¬ 
cess  ;  he  produces  a  list  of  those  who  have  been  rescued 
from  the  grave  by  taking  it.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  there  are  many  here  who  now  and  then  think  proper 
to  be  sick:  —  only  sick,  did  I  say?  there  are  some  who 
even  think  proper  to  die !  Yes,  by  the  head  of  Confucius, 
they  die  !  though  they  might  have  purchased  the  health- 
restoring  specific  for  half-a-crown  at  every  corner. 

I  can  never  enough  admire  the  sagacity  of  this  coun¬ 
try  for  the  encouragement  given  to  the  professors  of  this 
art ;  with  what  indulgence  does  she  foster  up  those  of  her 
own  growth,  and  kindly  cherish  those  that  come  from 
abroad !  Like  a  skilful  gardener,  she  invites  them  from 
every  foreign  climate  to  herself.  Here  every  great  exotic 
strikes  root  as  soon  as  imported,  and  feels  the  genial 
beam  of  favor;  while  the  mighty  metropolis,  like  one  vast 
munificent  dunghill,  receives  them  indiscriminately  to 
her  breast,  and  supplies  each  with  more  than  native  nour¬ 
ishment. 

In  other  countries  the  physician  pretends  to  cure  disor¬ 
ders  in  the  lump ;  the  same  doctor  who  combats  the  gout 


m 


rmx 


ESSAYS. 


487 


in  the  toe,  shall  pretend  to  prescribe  for  a  pah  in  tti« 
head  ;  and  lie  who  at  one  time  cures  a  consumption,  shall 
at  another  give  drugs  for  a  dropsy.  How  absurd  and 
ridiculous !  this  is  being  a  mere  jack  of  all  trades.  Is 
the  animal  machine  less  complicated  than  a  brass  pin? 
Not  less  than  ten  different  hands  are  required  to  make  a 
brass  pin ;  and  shall  the  body  be  set  right  by  one  single 
operator  ? 

The  English  are  sensible  of  the  force  of  this  reasoning 
they  have  therefore  one  doctor  for  the  eyes,  another  for 
the  toes  ;  they  have  their  sciatica  doctors,  and  inoculating 
doctors  ;  they  have  one  doctor,  who  is  modestly  content 
with  securing  them  from  bug  bites,  and  five  hundred  who 
prescribe  for  the  bite  of  mad  dogs. 

But  as  nothing  pleases  curiosity  more  than  anecdotes 
of  the  great,  however  minute  or  trifling,  I  must  present 
you,  inadequate  as  my  abilities  are  to  the  subject,  with  an 
account  of  one  or  two  of  those  personages  who  lead  in 
this  honorable  profession. 

The  first  upon  the  list  of  glory  is  Doctor  Diehard  Dock, 
F.  U.  N.  This  great  man  is  short  of  stature,  is  fat,  and 
waddles  as  he  wmlks.  He  always  wears  a  white  three- 
tailed  wig,  nicely  combed,  and  frizzled  upon  each  cheek. 
Sometimes  he  carries  a  cane,  but  a  hat  never  ;  it  is  indeed 
very  remarkable  that  this  extraordinary  personage  should 
never  wear  a  hat ;  but  so  it  is,  a  hat  he  never  wears.  He 
is  usually  drawn,  at  the  top  of  his  own  bills,  sitting  in  his 
arm-chair,  holding  a  little  bottle  between  his  finger  and 
thumb,  and  surrounded  with  rotten  teeth,  nippers,  pills, 
packets,  and  gallipots.  No  man  can  promise  fairer  or 
octter  than  he ;  for,  as  he  observes,  “  Be  your  disorder 


488 


ESSAYS, 


never  so  far  gone,  be  under  no  uneasiness,  make  your  sell 
quite  easy,  I  can  cure  you.” 

The  next  in  fame,  though  by  some  reckoned  of  equa. 
pretensions,  is  Dr.  Timothy  Franks,  F.  O.  G.  H.  living  in 
the  Old  Bailey.  As  Rock  is  remarkably  squab,  his  great 
rival  Franks  is  as  remarkably  tall.  He  was  born  in  the 
year  of  the  Christian  era  1692,  and  is,  while  I  now  write, 
exactly  sixty-eight  years  three  months  and  four  days  old. 
Age,  however,  has  no  ways  impaired  his  usual  health  and 
vivacity ;  I  am  told  he  generally  walks  with  his  breast 
open.  This  gentleman,  who  is  of  a  mixed  reputation,  is 
particularly  remarkable  for  a  becoming  assurance,  which 
carries  him  gently  through  life;  for,  except  Dr.  Rock, 
none  are  more  blessed  with  the  advantages  of  face  than 
Dr.  Franks. 

And  yet  the  great  have  their  foibles  as  well  as  the  little* 
X  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention  it.  Let  the  foibles  of 
the  great  rest  in  peace.  Yet  I  must  impart  the  whole. 
These  two  great  men  are  actually  now  at  variance ;  like 
mere  men,  mere  common  mortals.  Rock  advises  the 
world  to  beware  of  bog-trotting  quacks:  Franks  retorts 
the  wit  and  sarcasm,  by  fixing  on  his  rival  the  odious 
appellation  of  Dumpling  Dick.  He  calls  the  serious 
Doctor  Rock,  Dumpling  Dick !  Head  of  Confucius, 
what  profanation  !  Dumpling  Dick !  What  a  pity,  ye 
powers,  that  the  learned,  who  were  bora  mutually  to  as¬ 
sist  in  enlightening  the  world,  should  thus  differ  among 
themselves,  and  make  even  the  profession  ridiculous! 
Sure  the  world  is  wide  enough,  at  least,  for  two  great 
personages  to  figure  in  :  men  of  science  should  leave  con¬ 
troversy  to  the  little  world  below  them  ;  and  then  we 


s 


ESSAYS. 


489 


might  see  Rock  and  Franks  walking  together  hand  in 
hand,  smiling  onward  to  immortality. 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  STROLLING  PLAYER. 

I  am  fond  of  amusement,  in  whatever  company  it  is  U 
he  found :  and  wit,  though  dressed  in  rags,  is  ever  pleasing 
to  me.  I  went  some  days  ago  to  take  a  walk  in  St. 
James’s  Park,  about  the  hour  in  which  company  leave  it 
to  go  to  dinner.  There  were  but  few  in  the  walks,  and 
those  who  stayed  seemed  by  their  looks  rather  nr  jre  willing 
to  forget  that  they  had  an  appetite,  than  gain  one.  I  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  benches,  at  the  other  end  of  which 
was  seated  a  man  in  veiy  shabby  clothes. 

We  continued  to  groan,  to  hem,  and  to  cough,  as  usual 
upon  such  occasions  ;  and,  at  last,  ventured  upon  com  er 
sation.  “  I  beg  pardon,  sir,”  cried  I,  “  but  I  think  1 
have  seen  you  before;  your  face  is  familiar  to  me.” 
“Yes,  sir,”  replied  he,  “I  have  a  good  familiar  face,  as 
my  friends  tell  me.  I  am  as  well  known  in  every  town 
in  England  as  the  dromedary,  or  live  crocodile.  You 
must  understand,  sir,  that  I  have  been  these  sixteen  years 
merry-andrew  to  a  puppet-show :  last  Bartholomew  fail 
my  master  and  I  quarrelled,  beat  each  other,  and  parted 
he  to  sell  his  puppets  to  the  pincushion-makers  in  Rose- 
rnary-lane,  and  I  to  starve  in  St.  James’s  Park.” 

“I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  a  person  of  your  appearance 
should  labor  under  any  dilliculties.”  “  O,  sir,”  returned 
he,  “  my  appearance  is  very  much  at  your  service  :  but, 
though  I  cannot  boast  of  eating  much,  yet  there  are  fevf 


4yo 


ESSAYS. 


that  are  merrier;  if  I  had  twenty  thousand  a  year  i 
should  be  very  merry;  and,  thank  the  Fates,  though  not 
worth  a  groat,  I  am  very  merry  still.  If  I  have  three¬ 
pence  in  my  pocket,  I  never  refuse  to  be  my  three  half* 
pence ;  and,  if  I  have  no  money,  I  never  scorn  to  be 
treated  by  any  that  are  kind  enough  to  pay  the  reckoning 
What  think  you,  sir,  of  a  steak  and  a  tankard!  You 
shall  treat  me  now,  and  I  will  treat  you  again  when  I  find 
you  in  the  Park  in  love  with  eating,  and  without  money 
to  pay  for  a  dinner.” 

As  X  never  refuse  a  small  expense  for  the  sake  of  a 
merry  companion,  we  instantly  adjourned  to  a  neighbor¬ 
ing  ale-house,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  had  a  frothing 
tankard,  and  a  smoking  steak,  spread  on  the  table  before 
us.  It  is  impossible  to  express  how  much  the  sight  of 
such  good  cheer  improved  my  companion's  vivacity.  “  1 
like  this  dinner,  sir,”  says  he,  “  for  three  reasons ;  first, 
because  I  am  naturally  fond  of  beef ;  secondly,  because  1 
am  hungry ;  and,  thirdly  and  lastly,  because  X  get  it  lbr 
nothing ;  no  meat  eats  so  sweet  as  that  for  -which  we  do 
not  pay.” 

He  therefore  now  fell  to,  and  his  appetite  seemed  to 
correspond  with  his  inclination.  After  dinner  was  over, 
he  observed  that  the  steak  was  tough ;  “  and  yet,  sir,” 
returns  he,  “  bad  as  it  was,  it  seemed  a  rump-steak  to  me. 
O  the  delights  of  poverty  and  a  good  appetite !  W e  beg¬ 
gars  are  the  very  fondlings  of  Nature  ;  the  rich  she  treats 
like  an  arrant  step-mother ;  they  are  pleased  with  nothing ; 
cut  a  steak  from  what  part  you  will,  and  it  is  insupporfc- 
ably  tough ;  dress  it  up  with  pickles,  and  even  picklea 
cannot  procure  them  an  appetite.  But  the  whole  creation 


s 


ESSAT3. 


491 


is  filled  with  good  things  for  the  beggar ;  Calvert’s  bull 
out-tastes  champagne,  and  Sedgeley’s  home-brewed  excels 
tokay.  Joy,  joy,  my  blood ;  though  our  estates  lie  ne 
where,  we  have  fortunes  wherever  we  go.  If  an  inunda¬ 
tion  sweeps  away  half  the  grounds  in  Cornwall,  I  ain 
content:  I  have  no  land  there:  if  the  stocks  sink,  that 
gives  me  no  uneasiness ;  I  am  no  Jew.”  The  fellow’s 
vivacity,  joined  to  his  poverty,  I  own,  raised  my  curiosity 
to  know  something  of  his  life  and  circumstances  ;  and  1 
entreated  that  he  would  indulge  my  desire.  “  That  I 
will,”  said  he,  “  and  welcome ;  only  let  us  drink,  to  pre* 
vent  our  sleeping  ;  let  us  have  another  tankard,  while  we 
are  awake  ;  let  us  have  another  tankard ;  for,  ah,  how 
charming  a  tankard  looks  when  full ! 

“  You  must  know,  then,  that  I  am  very  well  descended.; 
ray  ancestors  have  made  some  noise  in  the  world,  for  mx 
mother  cried  oysters,  and  my  father  beat  a  drum :  I  am 
told  we  have  even  had  some  trumpeters  in  our  family. 
Many  a  nobleman  cannot  show  so  respectful  a  genealogy ; 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  As  I  was  their  only 
child,  my  father  designed  to  breed  me  up  to  his  own 
employment,  which  was  that  of  a  drummer  to  a  puppet- 
show.  Thus  the  whole  employment  of  my  younger  years 
was  that  of  interpreter  to  Punch  and  King  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory.  But,  though  my  father  was  very  fond  of 
instructing  me  in  beating  all  the  marches  and  points  of 
war,  I  made  no  very  great  progress,  because  I  naturally 
had  no  ear  for  music  ;  so  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  I  went  and 
listed  for  a  soldier.  As  I  had  ever  hated  beating  a  drum, 
so  I  soon  found  that  I  disliked  carrying  a  musket  also; 
neither  the  one  trade  nor  the  other  was  to  my  taste,  for  J 


was  by  nature  fond  of  being  a  gentleman :  besides,  I  was 
obliged  to  obey  my  captain  ;  lie  has  his  will,  I  have  mine 
and  you  have  yours :  now  I  very  reasonably  concluded, 
that  it  was  much  more  comfortable  for  a  man  to  obey  his 
own  will  than  another’s* 

The  life  of  a  soldier  soon  therefore  gave  me  the  spleen  ; 
I  asked  leave  to  quit  the  service ;  but,  as  I  was  tall  and 
strong,  my  captain  thanked  me  for  my  kind  intention,  and 
said,  because  he  had  a  regard  for  me  we  should  not  part, 
I  wrote  to  my  father  a  very  dismal,  penitent  letter,  and 
desired  that  he  would  raise  money  to  pay  for  my  discharge ; 
but  the  good  man  was  as  fond  of  drinking  as  I  was  (sir, 
my  service  to  you),  and  those  who  are  fond  of  drinking 
never  pay  for  other  people’s  discharges:  in  short,  he 
never  answered  my  letter.  What  could  be  done  ?  If  I 
have  not  money,  said  I  to  myself,  to  pay  for  my  discharge, 
I  must  find  an  equivalent  some  other  way ;  and  that  must 
be  by  running  away.  I  deserted,  and  that  answered  my 
purpose  every  bit  as  well  as  if  I  had  bought  my  dis¬ 
charge. 

“  Well,  I  was  now  fairly  rid  of  my  military  employment, 
I  sold  my  soldier’s  clothes,  bought  worse,  and,  in  order  not 
to  be  overtaken,  took  the  most  unfrequented  roads  possible. 
One  evening,  as  I  was  entering  a  village,  I  perceived  a 
man,  whom  I  afterward  found  to  be  the  curate  of  the 
parish,  thrown  from  his  horse  in  a  miry  road,  and  almost 
smothered  in  the  mud.  He  desired  my  assistance :  If 
gave  it,  and  drew  him  out  with  some  difficulty.  He 
thanked  me  for  my  trouble  and  was  going  off ;  but  1 
followed  him  home,  for  I  loved  always  to  have  a  man 
thank  me  at  his  own  door.  The  curate  asked  s 


\ 


ESSAYS. 


493 


hundred  questions ;  as,  whose  son  I  was  ;  fiom  whence  1 
came :  and  whether  I  would  be  faithful.  I  answered  him 
greatly  to  his  satisfaction,  and  gave  myself  one  of  the 
best  characters  in  the  world  for  sobriety  (sir,  I  have  the 
honor  of  drinking  your  health),  discretion  and  fidelity. 
To  make  a  long  story  short,  he  wanted  a  servant,  and 
hired  me.  With  him  I  lived  but  two  months ;  we  did  not 
much  like  each  other ;  I  was  fond  of  eating,  and  he  gave 
me  but  little  to  eat ;  I  loved  a  pretty  girl,  and  the  old 
woman,  my  fellow  servant,  was  ill-natured  and  ugly.  As 
they  endeavored  to  starve  me  between  them,  I  made  a 
pious  resolution  to  prevent  their  committing  murder ;  I 
stole  the  eggs  as  soon  as  they  were  laid ;  I  emptied  every 
unfinished  bottle  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  on  ;  whatever 
eatable  came  in  my  way  was  sure  to  disappear :  in  short, 
they  found  I  would  not  do;  so  I  was  discharged  one  morn¬ 
ing,  and  paid  three  shillings  and  sixpence  for  two  months’ 
wages. 

“  While  my  money  was  getting  ready,  I  employed  my¬ 
self  in  making  preparations  for  my  departure ;  two  hens 
were  hatching  in  an  out-house ;  I  went  and  took  the  e"^ 
from  habit,  and,  not  to  separate  the  parents  from  the 
children,  I  lodged  hens  and  all  in  my  knapsack.  After 
this  piece  of  frugality,  I  returned  to  receive  my  money, 
and,  with  my  knapsack  on  my  back  and  a  staff  in  my 
hand,  I  bid  adieu,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  to  my  old  bene¬ 
factor.  I  had  not  gone  far  from  the  house,  when  I  heard 
behind  me  the  try  of  w  Stop  thief!”  but  this  only  increas¬ 
ed  my  despatch :  it  would  have  been  foolish  for  me  to 
stop,  as  I  knew  the  voice  could  not  be  levelled  at  me. 
But  hold,  1  think  I  passed  those  two  months  at  the 


m 


ESSAYS. 


curate’s  without  drinking ;  come,  the  times  are  dry,  and 
may  this  be  my  poison  if  ever  I  spent  two  more  pious, 
stupid  months  in  all  my  life. 

“  Well,  after  travelling  some  days,  whom  should  I  light 
upon  but  a  company  of  strolling  players  ?  The  moment 
I  saw  them  at  a  distance,  my  heart  warmed  to  them :  1 
had  a  sort  of  natural  love  for  every  thing  of  the  vaga¬ 
bond  order ;  they  were  employed  in  settling  their  baggage 
which  had  been  overturned  in  a  narrow  way  ;  I  offered 
my  assistance,  which  they  accepted  ;  and  we  soon  became 
so  well  acquainted,  that  they  took  me  as  a  servant.  This 
was  a  paradise  to  me  ;  they  sung,  danced,  drank,  ate,  and 
travelled,  all  at  the  same  time.  By  the  blood  of  the 
Mirabels,  I  thought  I  had  never  lived  till  then ;  I  grew  as 
merry  as  a  grig,  and  laughed  at  every  word  that  was 
spoken.  They  liked  me  as  much  as  I  liked  them ;  I  was 
a  very  good  figure,  as  you  see ;  and,  though  I  was  poor, 
I  was  not  modest. 

“  I  love  a  straggling  life  above  all  things  in  the  world ; 
sometimes  good,  sometimes  bad ;  to  be  warm  to-day  and 
cold  to-morrow ;  to  eat  when  one  can  get  it,  and  drink 
when  (the  tankard  is  out)  it  stands  before  me.  We 
arrived  that  evening  at  Tenterden,  and  took  a  large  room 
at  the  Greyhound,  where  we  resolved  to  exhibit  Borneo 
and  Juliet,  with  the  funeral  procession,  the  grave  and  the 
garden  scene.  Romeo  was  to  be  performed  by  a  gentle¬ 
man  from  the  theatre  royal  in  Drury-lane;  Juliet,  by  a 
lady  who  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage  before;  and  1 
was  to  snuff  the  candles;  all  excellent  in  our  way.  We 
had  figures  enough,  but  the  difficulty  was  to  dress  them 
The  same  coat  that  served  Romeo,  turned  with  the  blue 


ESSAYS.  495 

lining  outwards,  served  for  his  friend  Mercutio ;  a  large 
piece  of  crape  sufficed  at  once  for  Juliet’s  petticoat  and 
pall ;  a  pestle  and  mortar,  from  a  neighboring  apothe¬ 
cary’s,  answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  bell :  and  our  land¬ 
lord’s  own  family,  wrapped  in  white  sheets,  served  to  fill 
up  the  procession.  In  short,  there  were  but  three  figures 
among  us  that  might  be  said  to  be  dressed  with  any  pro¬ 
priety  ;  I  mean  the  nurse,  the  starved  apothecary,  and 
myself.  Our  performance  gave  universal  satisfaction 
the  whole  audience  were  enchanted  with  our  powers. 

“  There  is  one  rule  by  which  a  strolling  player  may  be 
ever  secure  of  success ;  that  is,  in  our  theatrical  way  of 
5xpressing  it,  to  make  a  great  deal  of  the  character.  To 
speak  and  act  as  in  common  life,  is  not  playing,  nor  is  it 
what  people  come  to  see :  natural  speaking,  like  sweet 
wine,  runs  glibly  over  the  palate,  and  scarce  leaves  any 
taste  behind  it :  but  being  high  in  a  part  resembles  vine¬ 
gar,  which  grates  upon  the  taste,  and  one  feels  it  while  he 
is  drinking.  To  please  in  town  or  country,  the  way  is,  to 
cry,  wring,  cringe  into  attitudes,  mark  the  emphasis,  slap 
the  pockets,  and  labor  like  one  in  the  falling  sickness ; 
that  is  the  way  to  work  for  applause;  that  is  the  way  to 
gain  it. 

“  As  we  received  much  reputation  for  our  skill  on  this 
first  exhibition,  it  was  but  natural  for  me  to  ascribe  paif 
of  the  success  to  myself ;  I  snuffed  the  candles  ;  and,  let 
me  tell  you,  that  without  a  candle-snuffer,  the  piece  would 
lose  half  its  embellishments.  In  this  manner  we  continued 
a  fortnight,  and  drew  tolerable  houses :  but  the  evening 
before  our  intended  departure,  wre  gave  out  our  very  best 
piece,  in  which  all  our  strength  was  to  be  exerted  We 


£ 


ESSAYS. 

had  great  expectations  from  this,  and  even  doubled 
prices,  when,  behold !  one  of  the  principal  actors  fell  ill 
of  a  violent  fever.  This  was  a  stroke  like  thunder  to  our 
little  company:  they  were  resolved  to  go,  in  a  body,  to 
scold  the  man  for  falling  sick  at  so  inconvenient  a  time, 
and  that  too  of  a  disorder  that  threatened  to  be  expensive. 
I  seized  the  moment,  and  offered  to  act  the  part  myself  in 
his  stead.  The  case  was  desperate ;  they  accepted  my 
offer ;  and  I  accordingly  sat  down  with  the  part  in  my 
band,  and  a  tankard  before  me  (sir,  your  health),  and 
studied  the  character,  which  was  to  be  rehearsed  the  next 
day,  and  played  soon  after. 

“  I  found  my  memory  excessively  helped  by  drinking : 
I  learned  my  part  with  astonishing  rapidity,  and  bid  adieu 
to  snuffing  candles  ever  after.  I  found  that  Nature  had 
designed  me  for  more  noble  employments,  and  I  was  re¬ 
solved  to  take  her  when  in  the  humor.  We  got  together 
in  order  to  rehearse,  and  I  informed  my  companions,  mas¬ 
ters  now  no  longer,  of  the  surprising  change  I  felt  within 
me.  Let  the  sick  man,  said  I,  be  under  no  uneasiness  to 
get  well  again  ;  I  ’ll  till  his  place  to  universal  satisfaction: 
he  may  even  die,  if  he  thinks  proper;  I’ll  engage  that 
he  shall  never  be  missed.  I  rehearsed  before  them,  strut¬ 
ted,  ranted,  and  received  applause.  They  soon  gave  out 
that  a  new  actor  of  eminence  was  to  appear,  and  immedi¬ 
ately  all  the  genteel  places  were  bespoke.  Before  1 
ascended  the  stage,  however,  I  concluded  within  myselfj 
that,  as  I  brought  money  to  the  house,  I  ought  to  have 
my  share  in  the  profits.  Gentlemen  (said  I,  addressing 
our  company),  I  do  n’t  pretend  to  direct  you  ;  far  be  it 
from  me  to  treat  you  with  so  mucli  ingratitude:  you  have 


ESSAYS. 


49? 


pablishoa  my  name  in  the  bills  with  the  utmost  good-na. 
ture ;  and,  as  affairs  stand,  cannot  act  without  me ;  so, 
gentlemen,  to  show  you  my  gratitude,  I  expect  to  be  paid 
for  my  acting  as  much  as  any  of  you,  otherwise  I  declare 
o'd ;  I  11  brandish  my  snuffers  and  clip  candles  as  usual, 
lliis  was  a  very  disagreeable  proposal,  but  they  found 
tmit  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  it ;  it  was  irresistible,  it 
was  adamant :  they  consented,  and  I  went  on  in  king 
Bajazet :  my  frowning  brows  bound  with  a  stocking  stuff- 
ed  into  a  turban,  while  on  my  captived  arms  1  brandish¬ 
ed  a  jack-chain.  Nature  seemed  to  have  fitted  me  for  the 
part ;  I  was  tall,  and  had  a  loud  voice  ;  my  very  entrance 
excited  universal  applause :  I  looked  round  on  the  audi 
enee  with  a  smile,  and  made  a  most  low  and  graceful  bow, 
for  that  is  the  rule  among  us.  As  it  was  a  very  passion¬ 
ate  part,  I  invigorated  my  spirits  with  three  full  glasses 
(the  tankard  is  almost  out)  of  brandy.  By  Alla !  it  is 
almost  inconceivable  how  I  went  through  it.  Tamerlane 
was  but  a  fool  to  me;  though  ho  was  sometimes  loud 
enough  too,  yet  I  was  still  louder  than  he  ;  but  then,  be¬ 
sides,  I  had  attitudes  in  abundance ;  in  general,  I  kept 
my  arms  folded  up  thus  upon  the  pit  of  my  stomach ;  it 
is  the  way  at  Drury-lane,  and  has  always  a  fine  effect. 
a  he  tankard  would  sink  to  the  bottom  before  I  could  get 
through  the  whole  of  my  merits :  in  short,  I  came  off  like 
a  prodigy ;  and,  such  was  my  success,  that  I  could  ravish 
Te  laurels  even  from  a  surloin  of  beef.  The  principal 
gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  town  came  to  me,  after  the 
was  mer>  to  compliment  me  on  my  success:  one 
praised  my  voice,  another  my  person :  Upon  my  word 
says  the  squire’s  lady,  he  will  make  one  of  the  finest 

42* 


138 


ESS  ATS. 


actors  in  Europe ;  I  say  it,  and  I  think  1  am  something 
of  a  judge.  Praise  in  the  beginning  is  agreeable  enough, 
and  we  receive  it  as  a  favor ;  but  when  it  comes  in  great 
quantities  we  regard  it  only  as  a  debt,  which  nothing  but 
our  merit  could  extort ;  instead  of  thanking  them,  I  in¬ 
ternally  applauded  myself.  We  were  desired  to  give  our 
piece  a  second  time ;  we  obeyed,  and  I  was  applauded 
even  more  than  before. 

“  At  last  we  left  the  town,  in  order  to  be  at  a  horse-race 
Borne  distance  from  thence.  I  shall  never  think  of  Ten- 
terden  without  tears  of  gratitude  and  respect.  The  ladies 
and  gentlemen  there,  take  my  word  for  it,  are  very  good 
judges  of  plays  and  actors.  Come,  let  us  drink  their 
healths,  if  you  please,  sir.  We  quitted  the  town,  I  say 
and  there  was  a  wide  difference  between  my  coming  in 
and  going  out:  I  entered  the  town  a  candle  snuffer,  and  1 
quitted  it  a  hero! — Such  is  the  world  —  little  to-day, 
and  great  to-morrow.  I  could  say  a  great  deal  more  up¬ 
on  that  subject,  something  truly  sublime,  upon  the  ups 
and  downs  of  fortune;  but  it  would  give  us  both  the 
spleen,  and  so  I  shall  pass  it  over. 

\ 

“  The  races  were  ended  before  we  arrived  at  the  next 
town,  which  was  no  small  disappointment  to  our  compa¬ 
ny  ;  however,  we  were  resolved  to  take  all  we  could  get 
1  played  capital  characters  there  too,  and  came  off  with 
cay  usual  brilliancy.  I  sincerely  believe  I  should  have 
been  the  first  actor  in  Europe,  had  my  growing  merit 
been  properly  cultivated  ;  but  there  came  an  unkindly 
frost  which  nipped  me  in  the  bud,  and  levelled  me  once 
more  down  to  the  common  standard  of  humanity.  ] 
played  Sir  Harry  Wildair ;  all  the  country  ladies  were 


ESSAYS. 


499 


charmed;  if  1  but  drew  out  my  snuff-box,  tlie  whole 
house  was  in  a  roar  of  rapture ;  when  I  exercised  my 
cudgel,  I  thought  they  would  have  fallen  into  convulsions. 

“  There  was  here  a  lady,  who  had  received  an  educa* 
tion  of  nine  months  in  London,  and  this  gave  her  preten¬ 
sions  to  taste,  which  rendered  her  the  indisputable  mis¬ 
tress  of  the  ceremonies  wherever  she  came.  She  was 
informed  of  my  merits :  every  body  praised  me  :  yet 
she  refused  at  first  going  to  see  me  perform ;  she  could 
not  conceive,  she  said,  anything  but  stuff  from  a  stroller ; 
talked  something  in  praise  of  Garrick,  and  amazed  the 
ladies  with  her  skill  in  enunciations,  tones  and  cadences. 
She  was  at  last,  however,  prevailed  upon  to  go ;  and  it 
was  privately  intimated  to  me  what  a  judge  was  to  be 
present  at  my  next  exhibition :  however,  no  way  intimi¬ 
dated,  I  came  on  in  Sir  Harry,  one  hand  stuck  in  my 
breeches,  and  the  other  in  my  bosom,  as  ususal  at  Drury- 
lane ;  but,  instead  of  looking  at  me,  1  perceived  the  whole 
audience  had  their  eyes  turned  upon  the  lady  wrho  had 
been  nine  months  in  London ;  from  her  they  expected  the 
decision  which  was  to  secure  the  general’s  truncheon  in 
my  hands,  or  sink  me  down  into  a  theatrical  letter-carrier. 
I  opened  my  snuff-box,  took  snuff;  the  lady  was  solemn, 
and  so  were  the  rest.  1  broke  my  cudgel  on  Alderman 
Smuggler’s  back ;  still  gloomy,  melancholy  all ;  the  lady 
groaned  and  shrugged  her  shoulders.  I  attempted,  by 
laughing  myself,  to  excite  at  least  a  smile  ;  but  the  devii 
a  cheek  could  I  perceive  wrinkled  into  sympathy.  1 
found  it  would  not  do ;  all  my  good-humor  now  became 
forced ;  my  laughter  was  converted  into  hysteric  grin¬ 
ning;  and  while  I  pretended  spirits,  my  eyes  showed  the 


500 


ESSAYS. 


agony  of  my  heart !  In  short,  the  lady  came  with  an  in 
tention  to  be  displeased,  and  displeased  she  was ;  my 

fame  expired :  —  I  am  here,  and - the  tankard  is 

no  more !  ” 


RULES  ENJOINED  TO  BE  OBSERVED  AT  A  RUSSIAN 

ASSEMBLY. 

When  Catharina  Alexowna  was  made  empress  of 
Russia,  the  women  were  in  an  actual  state  of  bondage ; 
but  she  undertook  to  introduce  mixed  assemblies,  as  in 
other  parts  of  Europe ;  she  altered  tl  women’s  dress  by 
substituting  the  fashions  of  England  ■  instead  of  furs,  she 
brought  in  the  use  of  taffeta  and  damask ;  and  cornets 
and  commodes  instead  of  caps  of  sable.  The  women  now 
found  themselves  no  longer  shut  up  in  separate  apart¬ 
ments,  but  saw  company,  visited  each  other,  and  were 
present  at  every  entertainment. 

But  as  the  laws  to  this  effect  were  directed  to  a  savage 
people,  it  is  amusing  enough  to  see  the  manner  in  which 
the  ordinances  ran.  Assemblies  were  quite  unknown 
among  them :  the  czarina  was  satisfied  with  introducing 
them.  ff>r  she  found  it  impossible  to  render  them  polite. 
An  ordinance  was  therefore  published  according  to  theii 
notions  of  breeding,  which,  as  it  is  a  curiosity,  and  has 
never  been  before  printed  that  we  know  of,  we  shall  give 
our  readers. 

I.  The  person  at  whose  house  the  assembly  is  to  be 
kept,  shall  signify  the  same  by  hanging  out  a  bill,  or  by 


ESSAYS. 


501 


giving  some  other  public  notice,  by  way  of  advertismeni, 
to  persons  of  both  sexes. 

II.  The  assembly  shall  not  be  open  sooner  than  four 
or  live  o’clock  in  the  afternoon,  nor  continue  longer  than 
ten  at  night. 

III.  The  master  of  the  house  shall  not  be  obliged  to 
meet  his  guests,  or  conduct  them  out,  or  keep  them  com¬ 
pany;  but  though  he  is  exempt  from  all  this,  lie  is  to  find 
them  chairs,  candles,  liquors,  and  all  other  necessaries 
that  company  may  ask  for:  he  is  likewise  to  provide  them 
with  cards,  dice,  and  every  necessary  for  gaming. 

IV.  There  shall  be  no  fixed  hour  for  coming  or  going 
away ;  it  is  enough  for  a  person  to  appear  in  the  as¬ 
sembly. 

V.  Every  one  shall  be  free  to  sit,  walk,  or  game,  as 
he  pleases ;  nor  shall  any  one  go  about  to  hinder  him,  or 
take  exception  at  what  he  does,  upon  pain  of  emptying 
the  great  eagle  (a  pint  bowl  full  of  brandy)  :  it  shall  like¬ 
wise  be  sufficient,  at  entering  or  retiring,  to  salute  the 
company. 

VI.  Persons  of  distinction,  noblemen,  superior  officers, 
merchants,  and  tradesmen  of  note,  head-workmen,  es¬ 
pecially  carpenters,  and  persons  employed  in  chancery, 
&re  to  have  liberty  to  enter  the  assemblies ;  as  likewise 
ikeir  wives  and  children. 

VII.  A  particular  place  shall  be  assigned  the  footmen, 
except  those  of  the  house,  that  there  may  be  room  enough 
in  the  apartments  designed  for  the  assembly. 

VIII.  No  ladies  are  to  get  drunk  upon  any  pretence 
whatsoever,  nor  shall  gentlemen  be  drank  before  nine. 

IX.  Ladies  who  play  at  forfeitures,  questions  and  com 


o02 


ESSAYS. 


inands.  etc.  shall  not  be  riotous :  no  gentleman  shall  at> 
temp  to  force  a  kiss,  and  no  person  shall  offer  to  strike  a 
woman  in  the  assembly,  under  pain  of  future  exclusion. 

Such  are  the  statutes  upon  this  occasion,  which,  in  then 
very  appearance  carry  an  air  of  ridicule  and  satire.  But 
politeness  must  enter  every  country  by  degrees ;  and 
these  rules  resemble  the  breeding  of  a  clown,  awb  ward 
but  sincere. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  LOVE : 

AN  EASTERN  APOLOGUE. 

The  formalities,  delays,  and  disappointments,  that  pre¬ 
cede  a  treaty  of  marriage  here,  are  usually  as  numerous 
as  those  previous  to  a  treaty  of  peace.  The  laws  of  this 
country  are  finely  calculated  to  promote  all  commerce, 
but  the  commerce  between  the  sexes.  Th'dr  encourage¬ 
ments  for  propagating  hemp,  madder,  and  tobacco,  are 
indeed  admirable  I  Marriages  are  the  only  commodity 
that  meets  with  none. 

i 

Yet,  from  the  vernal  softness  of  the  air,  the  verdure  of 
the  fields,  the  transparency  of  the  streams,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  women,  I  know  few  countries  more  proper  to  invite 
to  courtship.  Here  Love  might  sport  among  painted  lawns 
and  warbling  groves,  and  revel  amidst  gales,  wafting  at 
once  both  fragrance  and  harmony.  Yet  it  seems  ho 
has  iorsaken  the  island ;  and  when  a  couple  are  now  to 
he  married,  mutual  love,  or  a  union  of  minds,  is  the  last 
and  most  trifling  consideration.  If  their  goods  and  chat> 
tels  can  lie  brought  to  unite,  their  sympathetic  souls  are 


ESSAYS. 


503 


ever  rpady  to  guarantee  the  treaty.  The  gentleman’s 
mortgaged  lawn  becomes  enamored  of  the  lady’s  mar- 
riageble  grove  ;  the  match  is  struck  up,  and  both  parties 
are  piously  in  love  - —  according  to  act  of  parliament. 

Thus  they  who  have  a  fortune,  are  possessed  at  least 
of  something  that  is  lovely  ;  but  I  actually  pity  those  that 
have  none.  I  am  told  there  was  a  time  when  ladies,  with 
no  other  merit  but  youth,  virtue,  and  beauty,  had  a  chance 
for  husbands,  at  least  among  the  ministers  of  the  church, 
or  the  officers  of  the  army.  The  blush  and  innocence  of 
sixteen  was  said  to  have  a  powerful  influence  over  these 
two  professions ;  but  of  late,  all  the  little  traffic  of  blush¬ 
ing,  ogling,  dimpling,  and  smiling,  has  been  forbidden  by 
an  act  in  that  case  wisely  made  and  provided.  A  lady’s 
whole  cargo  of  smiles,  sighs,  and  whispers,  is  declared 
utterly  contraband,  till  she  arrives  in  the  warm  latitude 
of  twenty-two,  where  commodities  of  this  nature  are 
found  too  often  to  decay.  She  is  then  permitted  to  dim¬ 
ple  and  smile,  when  the  dimples  and  smiles  begin  to  for¬ 
sake  her ;  and,  when  perhaps,  grown  ugly,  is  charitably 
intrusted  with  an  unlimited  use  of  her  charms.  Her 
lovers,  however,  by  this  time,  have  forsaken  her ;  the 
captain  has  changed  for  another  mistress ;  the  priest  him¬ 
self  leaves  her  in  solitude  to  bewail  her  virginity,  and 
she  dies  even  without  benefit  of  clergy. 

Thus  you  find  the  Europeans  discouraging  love  with  as 
much  earnestness  as  the  rudest  savage  of  Sofala.  The 
Genius  is  surely  now  no  more.  In  every  region  I  find 
enemies  in  arms  to  oppress  him.  Avarice  in  Europe, 
jealousy  in  Persia,  ceremony  in  China,  poverty  among 
fiie  Tartars,  and  lust  in  Circassia,  are  all  prepared  to  op* 


504 


ESSAYS. 


pose  his  power.  The  Genius  is  certainly  banished  fronw 
earth,  though  once  adored  under  such  a  variety  of  fDrrns 
He  is  no  where  to  be  found ;  and  all  that  the  ladies  of 
each  country  can  produce,  are  but  a  few  trifling  relics,  as 
instances  of  his  former  residence  and  favor. 

“The  Genius  of  Love,”  says  the  eastern  apologue 
u  had  long  resided  in  the  happy  plains  of  Abra,  where 
every  breeze  was  health,  and  every  sound  produced  tran¬ 
quillity.  His  temple  at  first  was  crowded,  but  every  age 
lessened  the  number  of*  his  votaries,  or  cooled  their  devo¬ 
tion.  Perceiving,  therefore,  his  altars  at  length  quite 
deserted,  he  was  resolved  to  remove  to  some  more  propi¬ 
tious  region ;  and  he  apprized  the  fair  sex  of  every  coun¬ 
try,  where  he  could  hope  for  a  proper  reception,  to  assert 
their  right  to  his  presence  among  them.  In  return  to 
this  proclamation,  embassies  were  sent  from  the  ladies  of 
every  part  of  the  world  to  invite  him,  and  to  display  tho 
superiority  of  their  claims. 

“  And,  first,  the  beauties  of  China  appeared.  No  coun¬ 
try  could  compare  with  them  for  modesty,  either  of  look, 
dress  or  behavior;  their  eyes  were  never  lifted  from  the 
ground ;  their  robes,  of  the  most  beautiful  silk,  hid  their 
hands,  bosom,  and  neck,  wdiile  their  faces  only  were  left 
uncovered.  They  indulged  no  airs  that  might  express 
oose  desire,  and  they  seemed  to  study  only  the  graces  of 
inanimate  beauty.  Their  black  teeth  and  plucked  eye- 
1/rows  were,  however,  alleged  by  the  genius  against  them 
but  he  set  them  entirely  aside  when  he  came  to  examine 
their  little  feet. 

“The  beauties  of  Circassia  next  made  their  appear 
fence.  They  advanced,  hand  in  hand,  singing  the  most 


ESSA7S. 


505 


immodest  airs,  and  leading  op  a  dance  in  the  most  1  ixu 
rious  attitudes.  Their  dress  was  but  half  a  covering 
the  neck,  the  left  breast,  and  all  the  limbs,  were  exposed 
to  view,  which,  after  some  time,  seemed  rather  to  satiate, 
than  inflame  desire.  The  lily  and  the  rose  contended  in 
forming  their  complexions  ;  and  a  soft  sleepiness  cf  eye 
added  irresistible  poignance  to  their  charms ;  but  their 
beauties  were  obtruded,  not  offered  to  their  admirers ; 
they  seemed  to  give,  rather  than  receive  courtship  ;  and 
the  genius  of  love  dismissed  them,  as  unworthy  his  re¬ 
gard,  since  they  exchanged  the  duties  of  love,  and  made* 
themselves  not  the  pursued,  but  the  pursuing  sex. 

“  The  kingdom  of  Kashmire  next  produced  its  charm¬ 
ing  deputies.  This  happy  region  seemed  peculiarly 
sequestered  by  nature  for  his  abode.  Shady  mountains 
fenced  it  on  one  side  from  the  scorching  sun ;  and  sea 
borne  breezes,  on  the  other,  gave  peculiar  luxuriance  to 
the  air.  Their  complexions  were  of  a  bright  yellow, 
that  appeared  almost  transparent,  while  the  crimson  tulip 
seemed  to  blossom  on  their  cheeks.  Their  features  and 
limbs  were  delicate  beyond  the  statuary’s  power  to  ex¬ 
press  ;  and  their  teeth  whiter  than  their  own  ivory.  He 
was  almost  persuaded  to  reside  among  them,  when  unfor¬ 
tunately  one  of  the  ladies  talked  of  appointing  his  seraglio. 

“In  this  procession  the  naked  inhabitants  of  Southern 
America  would  not  be  left  behind;  their  charms  were 
found  to  surpass  whatever  the  warmest  imagination  could 
conceive  ,  and  served  to  show,  that  beauty  could  be  per¬ 
fect,  even  with  the  seeming  disadvantage  of  a  brown 
complexion.  But  their  savage  education  rendered  them 
utterly  unqualified  to  make  the  proper  use  of  their  pow 

43 


506 


ESSAYS. 


er,  and  they  were  rejected  as  being  incapable  of  uniting 
mental  with  sensual  satisfaction.  In  this  manner  the 
deputies  of  other  kingdoms  had  their  suits  rejected :  the 
black  beauties  of  Benin,  and  the  tawny  daughters  of 
Borneo;  the  women  of  Wida  with  scarred  faces,  and 
the  hideous  virgins  of  Caffraria;  the  squab  ladies  of 
Lapland,  three  feet  high,  and  the  giant  fair  ones  of  Pat 
agonia. 

“  The  beauties  of  Europe  at  last  appeared :  grace  war 
in  their  steps,  and  sensibility  sat  smiling  in  every  eye. 
It  was  the  universal  opinion,  while  they  were  approach 
ing,  that  they  would  prevail :  and  the  genius  seemed  to 
lend  them  his  most  favorable  attention.  They  opened 
their  pretensions  with  the  utmost  modesty  ;  but  unfortu¬ 
nately,  as  their  orator  proceeded,  she  happened  to  let  fall 
the  words,  house  in  town,  settlement,  and  pin-money. 
These  seemingly  harmless  terms  had  instantly  a  surpris¬ 
ing  effect :  the  genius,  with  ungovernable  rage,  burst  from 
amidst  the  circle ;  and,  waving  his  youthful  pinions,  left 
this  earth,  and  flew  back  to  those  etherial  mansions 
from  whence  he  descended. 

“  The  whole  assembly  was  struck  with  amazement ; 
they  now  justly  apprehended  that  female  power  would  be 
no  more,  since  Love  had  now  forsaken  them.  They  con¬ 
tinued  some  time  thus  in  a  state  of  torpid  despair,  when 
it  was  proposed  by  one  of  the  number,  that,  since  the 
real  Genius  of  Love  had  left  them,  in  order  to  continue 
their  power,  they  should  set  up  an  idol  in  his  stead  ;  and 
that  the  ladies  of  every  country  should  furnish  him  with 
what  each  liked  best.  This  proposal  was  instantly  rel- 
wbed  and  agreed  to.  An  idol  of  gold  was  formed  by 


ESSAYS. 


50? 


uniting  the  capricious  gifts  of  all  the  assembly,  though  no 
way  resembling  the  departed  genius.  The  ladies  of  China 
furnished  the  monster  with  wings;  those  of  Kashrairc 
supplied  him  with  horns ;  the  dames  of  Europe  clapped 
a  purse  in  his  hand ;  and  the  virgins  of  Congo  furnished 
him  with  a  tail.  Since  that  time,  all  the  vows  addressed 
to  Love,  are  in  reality  paid  to  the  idol ;  and,  as  in  other 
false  religions,  the  adoration  seems  more  fervent  where 
the  heart  is  least  sincere," 


HISTORY  OF  THE  DISTRESSES  OF  AN  ENGLISH 
DISABLED  SOLDIER. 

No  observation  is  more  common,  and  at  the  same  time 
more  true,  than  that  u  one  half  of  the  world  is  ignorant 
how  the  other  half  lives.”  The  misfortunes  of  the  great 
are  held  up  to  engage  our  attention;  are  enlarged  upon 
in  tones  of  declamation ;  and  the  world  is  called  upon  to 
ga-ze  at  the  noble  sufferers :  the  great,  under  the  pressure 
of  calamity,  are  conscious  of  several  others  sympathizing 
with  their  distress ;  and  have,  at  once,  the  comfort  of 
admiration  and  pity. 

There  is  nothing  magnanimous  in  bearing  misfortunes 
with  fortitude  when  the  whole  wrorld  is  looking  on:  mea 
in  such  circumstances  will  act  bravely  even  from  motives 
of  vanity  :  but  he  who,  in  the  vale  of  obscurity,  can  brave 
adversity  :  who,  without  friends  to  encourage,  acquaintan¬ 
ces  to  pity,  or  even  without  hope  to  alleviate  his  misfor¬ 
tunes,  can  behave  with  tranquillity  and  indifference,  is 
truly  great ;  whether  peasant  or  courtier,  he  deserves  ad- 


508 


ES8AT3. 


miration,  and  should  be  held  up  for  our  imitation  and 

respect. 

While  the  slightest  inconveniences  of  the  great  arc 
magnified  into  calamities ;  while  tragedy  mouths  out  their 
sufferings  in  all  the  strains  of  eloquence  —  the  miseries 
of  the  poor  are  entirely  disregarded ;  and  yet  some  of  the 
lower  ranks  of  people  undergo  more  real  hardships  in  one 
day,  than  those  of  a  more  exalted  station  suffer  in  then 
whole  lives.  It  is  inconceivable  what  difficulties  the 
meanest  of  our  common  sailors  and  soldiers  endure  with 
out  murmuring  or  regret;  without  passionately  declaiming 
against  Providence,  or  calling  on  their  fellows  to  be  gazers 
on  their  intrepidity.  Every  day  is  to  them  a  day  of  rais- 
ery,  and  yet  they  entertain  tin  r  hard  fate  without  re¬ 
pining. 

With  what  indignation  do  I  hear  an  Ovid,  a  Cicero,  or 
a  Rabutin,  complain  of  their  misfortunes  and  hardships, 
whose  greatest  calamity  was  that  of  being  unable  to  visit 
a  certain  spot  of  earth,  to  which  they  had  foolishly 
attached  an  idea  of  happiness!  Their  distresses  were 
pleasures  compared  to  what  many  of  the  adventuring 
poor  every  day  endure  without  murmuring.  They  ate, 
drank,  and  slept ;  they  had  slaves  to  attend  them,  and 
were  sure  of  subsistence  for  life;  while  many  of  their 
fellow-creatures  are  obliged  to  wander  without  a  friend  to 
comfort  or  assist  them,  and  even  without  a  shelter  from 
the  severity  of  the  season. 

I  have  been  led  into  these  reflections  from  accidentally 
meeting,  some  days  ago,  a  poor  fellow,  whom  I  knew 
when  a  boy,  dressed  in  a  sailor’s  jacket,  and  begging  at 
of  the  outlets  of  the  town,  with  a  wooden  leiz.  j 


ESSAYS. 


f>Ob 

knew  him  to  be  honest  and  industrious  when  in  the 
country,  and  was  curious  to  learn  what  had  reduced  Mm 
to  his  present  situation.  Wherefore,  after  giving  him 
what  I  thought  proper,  I  desired  to  know  the  history  of 
his  life  and  misfortunes,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  was 
reduced  to  his  present  distress.  The  disabled  soldier,  foi 
such  he  was,  though  dressed  in  a  sailor’s  habit,  scratching 
his  head,  and  leaning  on  his  crutch,  put  himself  into  an 
attitude  to  comply  with  my  request,  and  gave  me  his  his¬ 
tory  as  follows :  — 

“As  for  my  misfortunes,  master,  I  can’t  pretend  ti 
have  gone  through  any  more  than  other  folks  :  for  except 
the  loss  of  my  limb,  and  my  being  obliged  to  beg,  I  don’t 
know  any  reason,  thank  Heaven,  that  I  have  to  complain 
there  is  Bill  Tibbs,  of  our  regiment,  he  has  lost  both  his 
legs,  and  an  eye  to  boot ;  but,  thank  Heaven,  it  is  not  so 
bad  with  me  yet. 

“I  was  lorn  in  Shropshire;  my  father  was  a  laborer, 
and  died  when  I  was  five  years  old,  so  I  was  put  upon 
the  parish.  As  he  had  been  a  wandering  sort  of  a  man, 
the  parishioners  were  not  able  to  tell  to  what  parish  I  be¬ 
longed,  or  where  I  was  born,  so  they  sent  me  to  another 
paiish,  and  that  parish  sent  me  to  a  third.  I  thought,  in 
my  heart,  they  kept  sending  me  about  so  long,  that  they 
would  not  let  me  be  born  in  any  parish  at  all ;  but  at  last, 
however,  they  fixed  me.  I  had  some  disposition  to  be  a 
scholar,  and  was  resolved  at  least  to  know  my  letters; 
but  the  master  of  the  workhouse  put  me  to  business  as 
soon  as  I  was  able  to  handle  a  mallet ;  and  here  I  lived 
an  easy  kind  of  a  life  for  five  years ;  I  only  wrought  ten 
hours  in  the  day.  and  had  my  meat  and  drink  provided 

43*  * 


510 


ES3A.Y6. 


for  my  labor.  It  is  true,  I  was  not  suffered  to  stir  >ut 
the  house,  for  fear,  as  they  said,  I  should  run  away ,  but 
what  ot  that  ?  I  had  the  liberty  of  the  whole  house, 
and  the  yard  before  the  door,  and  that  was  enough  for 
me.  I  was  then  bound  out  to  a  farmer,  where  I  was  up 
both  early  and  late  ;  but  I  ate  and  drank  well,  and  liked 
my  business  well  enough,  till  he  died,  when  I  was  obliged 
to  provide  for  myself;  so  1  was  resolved  to  go  and  seek 
my  fortune. 

“  In  this  manner  I  went  from  town  to  town,  worked 
when  I  could  get  employment,  and  starved  when  I  could 
get  none ;  when  happening  one  day  to  go  through  a  field 
belonging  to  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  spied  a  hare  crossing 
the  path  just  before  me ;  and  I  believe  the  devil  put  it 
into  my  head  to  fling  my  stick  at  it :  —  well,  what  will 
you  have  on ’t?  I  killed  the  hare,  and  was  bringing  it 
away  in  triumph,  when  the  justice  himself  met  me :  he 
called  me  a  poacher  and  a  villain  ;  and,  collaring  me,  de¬ 
sired  I  would  give  an  account  of  myself.  I  fell  upon  my 
knees,  begged  his  worship’s  pardon,  and  began  to  give  a 
full  account  of  all  that  I  knew  of  my  breed,  seed,  and 
generation ;  but  though  I  gave  a  very  good  account,  the 
justice  would  not  believe  a  syllable  I  had  to  say ;  so  1 
was  indicted  at  sessions,  found  guilty  of  being  poor,  and 
sent  up  to  London  to  Newgate,  in  order  to  be  transported 
as  a  vagabond. 

‘‘  People  may  say  this  and  that  of  being  in  jail ;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  found  Newgate  as  agreeable  a  place  as 
ever  I  was  in  in  all  my  life.  I  had  my  bellyfull  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  did  no  work  at  all.  This  kind  of  life  was 
too  good  to  last  for  ever;  so  I  was  taken  out  of  prison, 


s 


ESSAYS. 


51 J 


after  ilve  months,  put  on  board  a  ship,  and  sent  oft,  with 
two  hundred  more,  to  the  plantations.  We  had  but  an 
indifferent  passage ;  for,  being  all  confined  in  the  hold, 
more  than  a  hundred  of  our  people  died  for  want  of  sweet 
air ;  and  those  that  remained  were  sickly  enough.  Clod 
knows.  When  we  came  ashore  we  were  sold  to  the 
planters,  and  I  was  bound  for  seven  years  more.  As  1 
was  no  scholar,  for  I  did  not  know  my  letters,  I  was 
ooliged  to  work  among  the  negroes ;  and  I  served  out  my 
time,  as  in  duty  bound  to  do. 

u  ^  ^en  my  time  was  expired,  I  worked  my  passage 
home,  and  glad  I  was  to  see  old  England  again,  because 
1  loved  my  country.  I  was  afraid,  however,  that  I  should 
be  indicted  for  a  vagabond  once  more,  so  did  not  much 
care  to  go  down  into  the  country,  but  kept  about  the  town, 
and  did  little  jobs  when  I  could  get  them. 

“ 1  was  very  happy  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  till 
one  evening,  coming  home  from  work,  two  men  knocked 
me  down,  and  then  desired  me  to  stand.  They  belonged 
to  a  press-gang:  I  was  carried  before  the  justice,  and  as 
f  could  give  no  account  of  myself,  I  had  my  choice  left, 
whether  to  go  on  board  a  man  of  war,  or  list  for  a  soldier 
f  chose  the  latter ;  and,  in  this  post  of  a  gentleman,  3 
served  two  campaigns  in  Flanders,  was  at  the  battles  of 
\  al  and  bontenoy,  and  received  but  one  wound  through 
the  breast  here ;  but  the  doctor  of  our  regiment  soon 
made  me  well  again. 

u  ^  ken  fke  peace  came  on  I  was  discharged,  and  as  I 
Could  not  w  ork,  because  my  wound  was  sometimes  trouble¬ 
some,  I  lis+ed  for  a  landman  in  the  East-India  company** 


512 


ESSAYS. 


service.  I  here  fought  the  French  in  six  pitched  battles 
and  I  verily  believe,  that  if  I  could  read  or  write,  am 
captain  would  have  made  me  a  corporal.  But  it  was  not 
my  good  fortune  to  have  any  promotion,  for  I  soon  fell 
sick,  and  so  got  leave  to  return  home  again,  with  forty 
pounds  in  my  pocket.  This  was  at  the  beginning  of  the 
present  war,  and  I.  hoped  to  be  set  on  shore,  and  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  spending  my  money;  but  the  government 
wanted  men,  and  so  I  was  pressed  for  a  sailor  before  ever 
I  could  set  foot  on  shore. 

u  The  boatswain  found  me,  as  he  said,  an  obstinate  fel¬ 
low  :  he  swore  he  knew  that  I  understood  my  business 
well,  but  that  I  shammed  Abraham,  merely  to  be  idle  ; 
but  God  knows,  I  knew  nothing  of  sea-business,  and  ha 
beat  me  without  considering  what  he  was  about.  I  had 
still,  however,  my  lorty  pounds,  and  that  was  some  com¬ 
fort  to  me  under  every  beating ;  and  the  money  I  might 
have  had  to  this  day,  but  that  our  ship  was  taken  by  tha 
French,  and  so  I  lost  all. 

Our  crew  was  carried  into  Brest,  and  many  of  them 
died  because  they  were  not  used  to  live  in  a  jail ;  but 
for  my  part,  it  was  nothing  to  me,  for  I  was  seasoned. 
One  night  as  I  was  sleeping  on  the  bed  of  boards,  with  a 
warm  blanket  about  me,  for  I  always  loved  to  lie  well,  1 
was  awakened  by  the  boatswain,  who  had  a  dark  lantern 
in  his  hand.  Jack,  says  he  to  me,  will  you  knock  out  the 
French  sentries’  brains  ?  I  don’t  care,  says  I,  striving  to 
keep  myself  awake,  if  I  lend  a  hand.  Then  follow°me, 
pays  he,  and  I  hope  we  shall  do  business.  So  up  I  got, 
'nd  tied  my  blanket,  which  was  all  the  clothes  I  had, 


ESSAYS. 


513 


aDout  my  middle,  and  went  with  him  to  fight  the  French- 
man.  I  hate  the  French  because  they  are  all  slaves,  and 
wear  wooden  shoes. 

u  Though  we  had  no  arms,  one  Englishman  is  able  to 
beat  five  French  at  any  time ;  so  we  went  down  to  the 
loor,  where  both  the  sentries  were  posted,  and,  rushing 
upon  them,  seized  their  arms  in  a  moment,  and  knocked 
them  down.  From  thence,  nine  of*  us  ran  together  to  the 
quay,  and  seizing  the  first  boat  we  met,  got  out  of  the  har¬ 
bor  and  put  to  sea.  We  had  not  been  here  three  days 
before  we  were  taken  up  by  the  Dorset  privateer,  who 
were  glad  of  so  many  good  hands ;  and  we  consented  to 
run  our  chance..  However,  we  had  not  so  much  good 
luck  as  we  expected.  In  three  days  we  fell  in  with  the 
Pompadour  privateer,  of  forty  guns,  while  we  had  but 
twenty-three ;  so  to  it  we  went,  yard-arm  and  yard-arm. 
The  fight  lasted  for  three  hours,  and  I  verily  believe  we 
should  have  taken  the  Frenchman,  had  we  but  had  some 
more  men  left  behind ;  but  unfortunately  we  lost  all  our 
men  just  as  w^e  were  going  to  get  the  victory. 

“  I  was  once  more  in  the  power  of  the  French,  and  I 
believe  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  me  had  I  been 
brought  back  to  Brest :  but,  by  good  fortune  we  were  re¬ 
taken  by  the  Viper.  I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you,  that 
in  that  engagement  I  was  wounded  in  two  places  ;  I  lost 
four  fingers  of  the  left  hand,  and  my  leg  was  shot  off.  If 
I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  lost  my  leg  and  use 
of  my  hand  on  board  a  king’s  ship,  and  not  aboard  a  pri 
sateer,  I  should  have  been  entitled  to  clothing  and  main 
tenance  during  the  rest  of  my  life ;  but  that  was  not  my 
chance  :  one  man  is  born  with  a  silver  spoon  ir  his  mouth 


514 


ESSAYS. 


and  another  with  a  wooden  ladle.  However,  blessed  be 
God !  I  enjoy  good  health,  and  will  forever  love  liberty 
and  Old  England.  Liberty,  property,  and  Old  England 
forever,  — -  huzza  !  ” 

Thus  saying,  he  limped  off,  leaving  me  in  admiration 
his  intrepidity  and  content ;  nor  could  I  avoid  ac¬ 
knowledging,  that  an  habitual  acquaintance  with  misery, 
serv  es  better  than  philosophy  to  teach  us  to  despise  it. 


ON  THE  FRAILTY  OF  MAN. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  THE  ORDINARY  OR  NEWGATE. 

Man  is  a  most  frail  being,  incapable  of  directing  his 
steps,  unacquainted  with  what  is  to  happen  in  this  life  $ 
and  perhaps  no  man  is  a  more  manifest  instance  of  the 
truth  of  this  maxim,  than  Mr.  The.  Cibber,  just  now  gone 
out  of  the  world.  Such  a  variety  of  turns  of  fortune, 
yet  such  a  persevering  uniformity  of  conduct,  appears  in 
all  that  happened  in  his  short  span,  that  the  whole  may 
be  looked  upon  as  one  regular  confusion  ;  every  action  of 
his  life  was  matter  of  wonder  and  surprise,  and  his  death 
was  an  astonishment. 

This  gentleman  was  born  of  creditable  parents,  who 
gave  him  a  very  good  education,  and  a  great  deal  of  good 
learning,  so  that  he  could  read  and  write  before  he  was 
Bixteen.  However,  he  early  discovered  an  inclination  to 
follow  lewd  courses  ;  he  refused  to  take  the  advice  of  his 
parents,  and  pursued  the  bent  of  his  inclination ;  he 
pla^  ed  at  caras  on  the  Sundays,  called  himself  a  gentle- 
wan,  fell  out  with  his  mother  and  laundress  ;  and,  even  in 


ESSAYS. 


515 


these  early  days,  his  father  was  frequently  heard  to  ob¬ 
serve,  that  young  The.  —  would  be  hanged. 

As  he  advanced  in  years,  he  grew  more  fond  of  pleas¬ 
ure  ;  would  eat  an  ortolan  for  dinner,  though  he  bested 
tqe  guinea  that  bought  it ;  and  was  once  known  to  give 
three  pounds  for  a  plate  of  green  peas,  which  he  had  col¬ 
lected  over-night  as  charity  for  a  friend  in  distress  ;  he 
ran  into  debt  with  every  body  that  would  trust  him,  and 
none  could  build  a  sconce  better  than  he ;  so  that,  at  last, 
his  creditors  swore  with  one  accord  that  The.  —  would 
be  hanged. 

But,  as  getting  into  debt  by  a  man  who  had  no  visible 
means  but  impudence  for  subsistence,  is  a  thing  that 
every  reader  is  not  acquainted  with,  I  must  explain  that 
point  a  little,  and  that  to  his  satisfaction. 

There  are  three  ways  of  getting  into  debt:  first,  by 
pushing  a  face  ;  as  thus,  “  You,  Mr.  Lustring,  send  me 
home  six  yards  of  that  paduasoy,  damme ; —  but  liark’ye, 
do  n’t  think  I  ever  intend  to  pay  you  for  it  —  damme.” 
At  this,  the  mercer  laughs  heartily,  cuts  off  the  paduasoy 
and .  sends  it  home  ;  nor  is  he,  till  too  late,  surprised  to 
find  the  gentleman  had  said  nothing  but  truth,  and  kept 
his  word. 

The  second  method  of  running  into  debt  is  called 
Sneering ;  which  is  getting  goods  made  up  in  such  a 
fashion  as  to  be  unfit  for  every  other  purchaser;  and, 
if  the  tradesman  refuses  to  give  them  upon  credit,  then 
threaten  to  leave  them  upon  his  hands. 

But  the  third  and  best  method  is  called,  “  Being  the 
good  customer.”  The  gentleman  first  buys  some  trifle, 
and  pays  for  it  in  ready  money ;  he  comes  a  few  day* 


516 


ESSAYS. 


after  with  nothing  about  him  but  bank  bills,  and  buys,  w« 
will  suppose,  a  sixpenny  tweezer-case ;  the  bills  are  too 
great  to  be  changed,  so  he  promises  to  return  punctually 
the  day  after,  and  pay  for  what  he  has  bought.  In  this 
promise  he  is  punctual ;  and  this  is  repeated  for  eight  or 
ten  times,  till  his  face  is  well  known,  and  he  has  got,  at 
last,  the  character  of  a  good  customer.  By  this  means 
be  gets  credit  for  something  considerable,  and  then  never 
pays  it. 

In  all  this  the  young  man,  who  is  the  unhappy  subject 
of  our  present  reflections,  was  very  expert,  and  could  face, 
flneer,  and  bring  custom  to  a  shop,  with  any  man  in 
England  ;  none  of  his  companions  could  exceed  him  in 
this  ;  and  his  companions  at  last  said  that  The. —  would 
be  hanged. 

As  he  grew  old,  he  grew  never  the  better ;  he  loved 
ortolans  and  green  peas,  as  before ;  he  drank  gravy-soup, 
when  he  could  get  it,  and  always  thought  his  oysters 
tasted  best  when  he  got  them  for  nothing,  or,  which  was 
just  the  same,  when  he  bought  them  upon  tick  ;  thus  the 
old  man  kept  up  the  vices  of  the  youth,  and  what  he 
wanted  in  power  he  made  up  in  inclination ;  so  that  ail 
the  world  thought  that  old  The.  —  would  be  hanged. 

And  now,  reader,  I  have  brought  him  to  his  last  scene ; 
a  scene  where,  perhaps,  my  duty  should  have  obliged  me 
to  assist.  T  ou  expect,  perhaps,  his  dying  words,  and  the 
tender  farewell  of  his  wife  and  children  ;  you  expect  m 
account  of  his  coffin  and  white  gloves,  his  pious  ejacula* 
toons,  and  the  papers  he  left  behind  him.  In  this  1  can* 
not  indulge  your  curiosity  :  for,  oh,  the  mysteries  of  fate, 
i he. —  was  drowned. 


s 


ESSAYS. 


517 


u  Reader,”  as  Hervey  saith,  u  pause  and  ponder,  and 
ponder  and  pause  ;”  who  knows  wliat  thy  own  end  may 
be  ? 


ON  FRIENDSHIP 

There  are  few  subjects  which  have  been  more  written 
upon  and  less  understood,  than  that  of  friendship.  To  fol¬ 
low  the  dictates  of  some,  this  virtue,  instead  of  being  the 
assuager  of  pain,  becomes  the  source  of  every  incon¬ 
venience.  Such  speculatists,  by  expecting  too  much  from 
friendship,  dissolve  the  connection,  and  by  drawing  the 
bands  too  closely,  at  length  break  them.  Almost  all  our 
romance  and  novel  writers  are  of  this  kind;  they  per¬ 
suade  us  to  friendship,  which  we  find  it  impossible  to  sus¬ 
tain  to  the  last ;  so  that  this  sweetener  of  life,  under 
proper  regulations,  is,  by  their  means,  rendered  inaccessi¬ 
ble  or  uneasy.  It  is  certain,  the  best  method  to  cultivate 
this  virtue  is  by  letting  it,  in  some  measure,  make  itself; 
a  similitude  of  minds  or  studies,  and  even  sometimes  a 
diversity  of  pursuits,  will  produce  all  the  pleasures  that 
arise  from  it.  The  current  of  tenderness  widens  as  it 
proceeds ;  and  two  men  imperceptibly  find  their  heart3 
filled  with  good-nature  for  each  other,  when  they  were  at 
first  only  in  pursuit  of  mirth  or  relaxation. 

Friendship  is  like  a  debt  of  honor;  the  moment  it  is 
talked  of,  it  loses  its  real  name,  and  assumes  the  more 
ungrateful  form  of  obligation.  From  hence  we  find,  that 
those  who  regularly  undertake  to  cultivate  friendship, 
find  ingratitude  generally  repays  their  endeavors.  That 

44 


518 


ESSAYS. 


circle  of  beings,  which  dependance  gathers  round  us,  is 
almost  ever  unfriendly;  they  secretly  wish  the  terms  of 
their  connections  more  nearly  equal;  and,  where  the^ 
even  have  the  most  virtue,  are  prepared  to  reserve  all 
their  affections  for  their  patron  only  in  the  hour  of  his 
decline.  Increasing  the  obligations  which  are  laid  upon 
such  minds,  only  increases  their  burden ;  they  feel  them¬ 
selves  unable  to  repay  the  immensity  of  their  debt,  and 
their  bankrupt  hearts  are  taught  a  latent  i  esentment 
at  the  hand  that  is  stretched  out  with  offers  of  service 
and  relief. 

Plautinus  was  a  man  who  thought  that  every  good  was 
to  be  brought  from  riches ;  and,  as  he  was  possessed  of 
great  wealth,  and  had  a  mind  naturally  formed  for  virtue, 
he  resolved  to  gather  a  circle  of  the  best  men  round  him. 
Among  the  number  of  his  dependants  was  Musidorus, 
with  a  mind  just  as  fond  of  virtue,  yet  not  less  proud 
than  his  patron.  Bis  circumstances,  however,  were  such 
as  forced  him  to  stoop  to  the  good  offices  of  his  superior, 
and  he  saw  himself  daily  among  a  number  of  others 
loaded  with  benefits  and  protestations  of  friendship 
These,  in  the  usual  course  of  the  world,  he  thought  it 
prudent  to  accept :  but,  while  he  gave  his  esteem,  he 
could  not  give  his  heart.  A  want  of  affection  breaks  out 
in  the  most  trifling  instances,  and  Plautinus  had  skill 
enough  to  observe  the  minutest  actions  of  the  man  he 
wished  to  make  his  friend.  In  these  he  even  found  his 
•dm  disappointed ;  Musidorus  claimed  an  exchange  of 
hearts,  which  Plautinus,  solicited  by  a  variety  of  claims 
could  never  think  of  bestowing. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed  that  the  reserve  of  our  pocw 


ES8AVS. 


519 


proud  man  was  soon  construed  into  ingratitude  ;  and  such 
indeed,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  world,  it  was. 
W  herever  Musidorus  appeared,  he  was  remarked  as  the 
ungrateful  man ;  he  had  accepted  favors,  it  was  said ;  and 
still  had  the  insolence  to  pretend  to  independence.  The 
event,  however,  justified  his  conduct.  Plautinus,  by  mis¬ 
placed  liberality,  at  length  became  poor,  and  it  was  then 
that  Musidorus  first  thought  of  making  a  friend  of  him. 
He  flew  to  the  man  of  fallen  fortune,  with  an  offer  of  all 
he  had  ;  wrought  under  his  direction  with  assiduity  ;  and, 
by  uniting  their  talents,  both  were  at  length  placed  in 
that  state  of  life  from  which  one  of  them  had  formerly 
fallen. 

To  this  story,  taken  from  modem  life,  I  shall  add  one 
more,  taken  from  a  Greek  writer  of  antiquity:  —  Two 
Jewish  soldiers,  in  the  time  of  Vespasian,  had  fought 
many  campaigns  together,  and  a  participation  of  danger 
at  length  bred  a  union  of  hearts.  They  were  remarked 
through  the  whole  army,  as  the  two  friendly  brothers ; 
they  felt  and  fought  for  each  other.  Their  friendship 
miglP  have  continued,  without  interruption,  till  death,  had 
not  the  good  fortune  of  the  one  alarmed  the  pride  of  the 
other,  which  was  in  his  promotion  to  be  a  centurion  under 
the  famous  John,  who  headed  a  particular  part  of  the 
Jewish  malcontents. 

From  this  moment,  their  former  love  was  converted 
into  the  most  inveterate  enmity.  They  attached  them* 
selves  to  opposite  factions,  and  sought  each  other’s  lives 
in  the  conflict  of  adverse  party.  In  this  manner  they 
continued  for  more  than  two  years,  vowing  mutual  re* 
venge,  and  animated  with  an  unconquerable  spirit  o t 


f)20 


ESSAYS. 


aversion.  At.  length,  however,  t nat  party  of  the  Jews, 

to  which  the  mean  soldier  belonged,  joining  with  the 

♦ 

Romans,  it  became  victorious,  and  drove  John  with  all 
his  adherents  into  the  temple.  'History  has  given  us 
more  than  one  picture  of  the  dreadful  conflagration  of 
that  superb  edifice.  The  Roman  soldiers  were  gathered 
round  it ;  the  whole  temple  was  in  flames  :  and  thousands 
were  seen  amidst  them  within  its  sacred  circuit.  It  was 
in  this  situation  of  things,  that  the  now  successful  soldier 
saw  his  former  friend,  upon  the  battlements  of  the  high 
est  tower,  looking  round  with  horror,  and  just  ready  to 
be  consumed  with  flames.  All  his  former  tenderness  now 
returned ;  he  saw  the  man  of  his  bosom  just  going  to 
perish  ;  and  unable  to  withstand  the  impulse,  he  ran, 
spreading  his  arms,  and  cried  out  to  his  friend  to  leap 
down  from  the  top,  and  find  safety  with  him.  The  cen¬ 
turion  from  above  heard  and  obeyed ;  and,  casting  him¬ 
self  from  the  top  of  the  tower  into  his  fellow-soldier’s 
arms,  both  fell  a  sacrifice  on  the  spot ;  one  being  crushed 
to  death  by  the  weight  of  his  companion,  and  the  other 
dashed  to  pieces  by  the  greatness  of  his  fall. 


FOLLY  OF  ATTEMPTING  TO  LEARN  WISDOM  IN 

RETIREMENT. 

Books,  while  they  teach  us  to  respect  the  interests  of 
others,  often  make  us  unmindful  of  our  own  ;  while  they 
instruct  the  youthful  reader  to  grasp  at  social  happiness, 
he  grows  miserable  in  detail ;  and,  attentive  to  universal 
harmony,  often  forgets  that  he  himself  lias  a  part  to  sus* 


ESSAYS. 


521 


lain  k  the  concert.  1  dislike,  therefore,  the  philosopher 
who  describes  the  inconveniences  of  life  in  such  pleasing 
colors,  that  the  pupil  grows  enamored  of  distress,  longs  to 
try  the  charms  of  poverty,  meets  it  without  dread,  nor 
fears  its  inconveniences  till  he  severely  feels  them. 

A  youth  who  has  thus  spent  his  life  among  books,  new 
fo  the  world,  and  unacquainted  with  man  but  by  philo¬ 
sophic  information,  may  be  considered  as  a  being  whose 
mind  is  filled  with  the  vulgar  errors  of  the  wise ;  utterly 
unqualified  for  a  journey  through  life,  yet  confident  of 
his  own  skill  in  the  direction,  he  sets  out  with  confidence, 
blunders  on  with  vanity,  and  finds  himself  at  last  un¬ 
done. 

He  first  has  learned  from  books,  and  then  lays  it  down 
as  a  maxim,  that  all  mankind  are  virtuous  or  vicious  in 
excess :  and  he  has  been  long  taught  to  detest  vice  and 
love  virtue.  Warm,  therefore,  in  attachments,  and  stead- 
fast  in  enmity,  he  treats  every  creature  as  a  friend  or  foe  ; 
expects  from  those  he  loves  unerring  integrity  ;  and  con¬ 
signs  his  enemies  to  the  reproach  of  wanting  every  virtue. 
On  this  principle  he  proceeds ;  and  here  begin  his  disap¬ 
pointments  :  upon  a  closer  inspection  of  human  nature, 
he  perceives  that  he  should  have  moderated  his  friend¬ 
ship,  and  softened  his  severity  ;  for  he  often  finds  the  ex 
eellences  of  one  part  of  mankind  clouded  with  vice,  and 
the  faults  of  the  other  brightened  with  virtue ;  he  finds 
no  character  so  sanctified  that  has  not  its  failings,  none  so 
infamous,  but  has  somewhat  to  attract  our  esteem  ;  he 
beholds  impiety  in  lawn,  and  fidelity  in  fetters. 

He  now,  therefore,  but  too  late,  perceives  that  his  re¬ 
gards  should  have  been  more  cool,  and  his  hatred  less  vio 

44* 


522 


ESSAYS. 


lent ;  that  the  truly  wise  seldom  court  romantic  friend 
ship  with  the  good,  and  avoid,  if  possible,  the  resentment 
even  of  the  wicked ;  every  moment  gives  him  fresh  in¬ 
stances  that  the  bonds  of  friendship  are  broken  if  drawn 
too  closelv :  and  that  those  whom  he  has  treated  with  dis- 
respect,  more  than  retaliate  the  injury  :  at  length,  there¬ 
fore,  he  is  obliged  to  confess,  that  he  has  declared  war 
upon  the  vicious  half  of  mankind,  without  being  able  to 
form  an  alliance  among  the  virtuous  to  espouse  his 
quarrel. 

Our  book-taught  philosopher,  however,  is  now  too  far 
advanced  to  recede ;  and  though  poverty  be  the  just  con-  * 
sequence  of  the  many  enemies  his  conduct  has  created, 
yet  he  is  resolved  to  meet  it  without  shrinking ;  philoso¬ 
phers  have  described  poverty  in  most  charming  colors  j 
and  even  his  vanity  is  touched  in  thinking  he  shall  show 
the  world  in  himself  one  more  example  of  patience,  forti¬ 
tude  and  resignation :  “  Come,  then,  O  Poverty !  for 

what  is  there  in  thee  dreadful  to  the  wise  ?  Temperance, 
health,  and  frugality,  walk  in  thy  train ;  cheerfulness  and 
liberty  are  ever  thy  companions.  Shall  any  be  ashamed  . 
cf  thee  of  whom  Cincinnatus  was  not  ashamed  ?  The 
running  brook,  the  herbs  of  the  field,  can  amply  satisfy 
nature ;  man  wants  but  little,  nor  that  little  long.  Come, 
then,  O  Poverty !  while  kings  stand  by,  and  gaze  with  ad¬ 
miration  at  the  true  philosopher’s  resignation.” 

The  goddess  appears  ;  for  Poverty  ever  comes  at  the 
call ;  but,  alas !  he  finds  her  by  no  means  the  charming 
figure  books  and  his  own  imagination  had  painted.  As 
when  an  eastern  bride,  whom  her  friends  and  relations 
bad  long  described  as  a  model  of  perfection,  pays  her  first 


ESSAYS.  523 

visit,  the  longing  bridegroom  lifts  the  veil  to  see  a  face  he 
had  never  seen  before ;  but  instead  of  a  countenance 
Hazing  with  beauty  like  the  sun,  he  beholds  deformity 
shooting  icicles  to  his  heart ;  such  appears  Poverty  to 
her  new  entertainer:  all  the  fabric  of  enthusiasm  is  at 
:>nce  demolished,  and  a  thousand  miseries  rise  upon  its 
ruins  ;  while  Contempt,  with  pointing  finger,  is  foremost 
in  the  hideous  procession. 

The  poor  man  now  finds  that  he  can  get  no  kings  to 
look  at  him  while  he  is  eating :  he  finds  that  in  proportion 
as  he  grows  poor,  the  world  turns  its  back  upon  him,  and 
gives  him  leave  to  act  the  philosopher  in  all  the  majesty 
of  solitude.  It  might  be  agreeable  enough  to  play  the 
philosopher,  while  we  are  conscious  that  mankind  are 
spectators  ;  but  what  signifies  wearing  the  mask  of  sturdy 
contentment,  and  mounting  the  stage  of  restraint,  when 
not  one  creature  will  assist  at  the  exhibition  ?  Thus  is 
lie  forsaken  of  men,  while  his  fortitude  wants  the  satis¬ 
faction  even  of  self-applause  ;  for  either  he  does  not  feel 
his  present  calamities,  and  that  is  natural  insensibility; 
or  he  disguises  his  feelings,  and  that  is  dissimulation. 

Spleen  now  begins  to  take  up  the  man;  not  dis* 
tinguishing  in  his  resentment,  he  regards  all  mankind 
with  detestation  :  and  commencing  man-hater,  seeks  soli¬ 
tude  to  be  at  liberty  to  rail. 

It  has  been  said,  that  he  who  retires  to  solitude  is 
either  a  beast  or  an  angel :  the  censure  is  too  severe,  and 
the  praise  unmerited  ;  the  discontented  being,  who  retires 
from  society,  is  generally  some  good-natured  man  who 
has  begun  life  without  experience,  and  knew  not  now  to 
gain  it  in  his  intercourse  with  mankind. 


524 


ESSAYS. 


LETTER, 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  A  COMMON-COUNCIL-MAS  AT 
THE  TIME  OF  THE  CORONATION. 

—  I  have  tlie  honor  of  being  a  common-councii 
man,  and  am  greatly  pleased  with  a  paragraph  from 
Southampton  in  yours  of  yesterday.  There  we  leaix 
that  the  mayor  and  aldermen  of  that  loyal  borough  had 
the  particular  satisfaction  of  celebrating  the  royal  nup¬ 
tials  by  a  magnificent  turtle-feast.  By  this  means  the 
gentlemen  had  the  pleasure  of  filling  their  bellies,  and 
showing  their  loyalty,  together.  I  must  confess  it  would 
give  me  pleasure  to  see  some  such  method  of  testifying 
our  loyalty  practised  in  this  metropolis,  of  which  I  am  an 
unworthy  member.  Instead  of  presenting  his  majesty 
(God  bless  him)  on  every  occasion  with  our  formal  ad¬ 
dresses,  we  might  thus  sit  comfortably  down  to  dinner, 
and  wish  him  prosperity  in  a  surloin  of  beef;  upon  our 
army  levelling  the  walls  of  a  town,  or  besieging  a  fortifi¬ 
cation,  we  might  at  our  city-feast  imitate  our  brave  troops,, 
and  demolish  the  walls  of  a  venison-pasty,  or  besiege  the 
shell  of  a  turtle,  with  as  great  a  certainty  of  success. 

At  present,  however,  we  have  got  into  a  sort  of  dry, 
unsocial  manner  of  drawing  up'  addresses  upon  every  oc¬ 
casion  ;  and  though  I  have  attended  upon  six  cavalcades 
and  two  foot-processions,  in  a  single  year,  yet  I  came 
away  as  lean  and  hungry,  as  if  I  had  been  a  juryman  at 
the  Old  Bailey.  For  my  part,  Mr.  Printer,  I  don't  see 
what  is  got  by  these  processions  and  addresses,  except  an 
appetite ;  and  that,  thank  Heaven,  we  all  have  in  a  pretty 
good  degree,  without  ever  leaving  our  own  houses  for  ii 
It  is  true,  our  gowns  of  mazarine  blue,  edged  with  fur,  cut 


ESSAYS. 


525 


ft  pretty  figure  enough,  parading  it  through  the  streets, 
and  so  my  wife  tells  me.  In  fact,  I  generally  how  to  all 
ray  acquaintance,  when  thus  in  full  dress  ;  hut,  alas !  as 
the  proverb  has  it,  fine  clothes  never  fill  the  belly. 

But  even  though  all  this  bustling,  parading,  and  pow¬ 
dering,  through  the  streets,  be  agreeable  enough  to  many 
of  us  ;  yet,  I  would  have  my  brethren  consider  whether 
the  frequent  repetition  of  it  be  so  agreeable  to  our  betters 
above.  To  be  introduced  to  court,  to  see  the  queen,  to 
kiss  hands,  to  smile  upon  lords,  to  ogle  the  ladies,  and  all 
the  other  fine  things  there,  may,  I  grant,  be  a  perfect  show 
to  us  that  view  it  but  seldom ;  but  it  may  be  a  trouble¬ 
some  business  enough  to  those  who  are  to  settle  such 
ceremonies  as  these  every  day.  To  use  an  instance 
adapted  to  all  our  apprehensions  ;  suppose  my  family  and 
I  should  go  to  Bartholomew  fair.  Very  well,  going  to 
Bartholomew  fair,  the  whole  sight  is  perfect  rapture  to 
us,  who  are  only  spectators  once  and  away  ;  but  I  am  of 
opinion,  that  the  wire-walker  and  fire-eater  find  no  such 
great  sport  in  all  this  ;  I  am  of  opinion  they  had  as  lief 
remain  behind  the  curt^n,  at  their  own  pastimes,  drink 
ing  beer,  eating  shrimps,  and  smoking  tobacco. 

Besides,  what  can  we  tell  his  majesty  in  all  we  say  on 
these  occasions,  but  what  he  knows  perfectly  well  already  ? 
I  believe,  if  I  were  to  reckon  up,  I  could  not  find  above 
five  hundred  disaffected  in  the  whole  kingdom;  and  here 
we  are  every  day  telling  his  majesty  how  loyal  we  are. 
Suppose  the  addresses  of  a  people,  for  instance,  should 
ran  thus :  — 

«  May  it  please  your  m— — y,  we  are  many  of  us  worth 
a  hundred  thousand  pound  and  are  possessed  of  several 


526 


ESSAYS. 


other  inestimable  advantages.  For  the  preservation  of 
this  money  and  those  advantages  we  are  chiefly  indebted 

to  your  m - y.  We  are,  therefore,  once  more  assem 

bled,  to  assure  your  m - y  of  our  fidelity.  This,  it  is 

true,  we  have  lately  assured  your  m - y  five  or  six 

times  ;  but  we  are  willing  once  more  to  repeat  what  can’t 
be  doubted,  and  to  kiss  your  royal  hand,  and  the  queen’s 
hand,  and  thus  sincerely  to  convince  you,  that  we  never 
shall  do  any  thing  to  deprive  you  of-  one  loyal  subject,  of 
any  one  of  ourselves  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds.’ 
Should  we  not,  upon  reading  such  an  address,  think  that 
people  a  little  silly,  who  thus  made  such  unmeaning  pro¬ 
fessions?  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Printer:  no  man  upon  earth 
hath  a  more  profound  respect  for  the  abilities  of  the  aider- 
men  and  common-council  than  I ;  but  I  could  wish  they 
would  not  take  up  a  monarch’s  time  in  these  good-natured 
trifles,  who,  I  am  told,  seldom  spends  a  moment  in  vain. 

The  example  set  by  the  city  of  London  will  probably 
be  followed  by  every  other  community  in  the  British  em¬ 
pire.  Thus  we  shall  have  a  new  set  of  addresses  from 
every  little  borough  with  but  fouy  freemen  and  a  burgess  ; 
day  after  day  shall  we  see  them  come  up  with  hearts  fill¬ 
ed  with  gratitude,  “  laying  the  vows  of  a  loyal  people  at 
the  foot  of  the  throne.”  Death  !  Mr.  Printer,  they  will 
hardly  leave  our  courtiers  time  to  scheme  a  single  project 
for  beating  the  French ;  and  our  enemies  may  gain  upon 
us,  while  we  are  thus  employed  in  telling  our  governor 
how  much  we  intend  to  keep  them  under. 

But  a  people  by  too  frequent  use  of  addresses  may  by 
this  means  come  at  last  to  defeat  th6  very  purpose  for 
which  they  are  designed.  If  we  are  thus  exclaiming  ill 


ESSAYS* 


527 


raptures  upon  every  occasion,  we  deprive  ourselves  of  the 
powers  of  flattery,  when  there  may  be  a  real  necessity 
A  boy  three  weeks  ago  swimming  across  the  Thames* 
was  every  minute  crying  out,  for  his  amusement,  “  I ’ve 
got  the  cramp,  I ’ve  got  the  cramp :  ”  the  boatmen  pushed 
off  once  or  twice,  and  they  found  it  was  fun ;  he  soon 
after  cried  out  in  earnest,  but  nobody  believed  him,  and 
he  sunk  to  the  bottom. 

In  short,  sir,  I  am  quite  displeased  with  any  unneces¬ 
sary  cavalcade  whatever.  I  hope  we  shall  soon  have 
occasion  to  triumph,  and  then  I  shall  be  ready  myself 
either  to  eat  at  a  turtle-feast  or  to  shout  at  a  bonfire  :  and 
will  either  lend  my  faggot  at  the  fire,  or  flourish  my  hat 
at  every  loyal  health  that  may  be  proposed. 

I  am,  sir,  etc. 


A  SECOND  LETTEK, 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WHITTEN  BY  A  COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN, 
DESCRIBING  THE  CORONATION. 

Sib,  —  I  am  the  same  common-council-man  who  troub¬ 
led  you  some  days  ago.  To  whom  can  I  complain  but  to 
you  ?  for  you  have  many  a  dismal  correspondent ;  in  tlna 
time  of  joy  my  wife  does  not  choose  to  hear  me,  because, 
she  says,  I ’m  always  melancholy  when  she ’s  in  spirita. 
I  have  been  to  see  the  coronation,  and  a  fine  sight  it  was, 
as  I  am  told,  to  those  who  had  the  pleasure  of  being  near 
spectators.  The  diamonds,  I  am  told,  were  as  thick  a« 
Bristol  stones  in  a  show  glass;  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
walked  along,  one  foot  before  another,  and  threw  their 


528 


ESSAYS* 


eyes  about  tliera,  on  this  side  and  that,  perfectly  like  clock 
work.  O  !  Mr.  Printer,  it  had  been  a  fine  sight  indeed 
if  there  was  but  a  little  more  eating. 

Instead  of  that,  there  we  sat,  penned  up  in  our  scaffold¬ 
ing,  like  sheep  upon  a  market-day  in  Smithiield ;  but  the 
devil  a  thing  I  could  get  to  eat  (God  pardon  me  for  swear¬ 
ing)  except  the  fragments  of  a  plum-cake,  that  was  all 
squeezed  into  crumbs  in  my  wife’s  pocket,  as  she  camo 
through  the  crowd.  You  must  know,  sir,  that  in  order  to 
do  the  thing  genteelly,  and  that  all  my  family  might  be 
amused  at  the  same  time,  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  ], 
took  two-guinea  places  for  the  coronation,  and  I  gave  my 
two  eldest  boys  (who  by  the  by  are  twins,  fine  children) 
eighteen-pence  a-piece  to  go  to  Sudrick  fair,  to  see  the 
court  of  the  black  King  of  Morocco,  which  will  serve  to 
please  children  well  enough. 

That  we  might  have  good  places  on  the  scaffolding,  my 
wife  insisted  upon  going  at  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening 
before  the  coronation,  for  she  said  she  would  not  lose  a 
full  prospect  for  the  world.  This  resolution,  I  own, 
shocked  me.  “  Grizzle,”  said  I  to  her,  “  Grizzle,  my 
dear,  consider  that  you  are  but  weakly,  always  ailing,  and 
will  never  bear  sitting  all  night  upon  the  scaffolding.  You 
remember  what  a  cold  you  got  the  last  fast-day  by  rising 
but  half  an  hour  before  your  time  to  go  to  church,  and 
how  I  was  scolded  as  the  cause  of  it.  Besides,  my  dear, 
our  daughter  Anna  Amelia  Wilhelmina  Carolina  will  look 
bke  a  perfect  fright  if  she  sits  up ;  and  you  know  the 
girl’s  face  is  something  at  her  time  of  life,  considering  her 
fortune  is  but  small.”  “  Mr.  Grogan,”  replied  my  wife, 
“  Mr.  Grogan,  this  is  always  the  case,  when  y-'wi  find  me 


ESSAYS. 


529 


hi  spirits ;  I  do  n't  want  to  go,  not  I,  nor  I  do  n’t  care 
whether  I  go  at  all ;  it  is  seldom  that  I  am  in  spirits,  but 
this  is  always  the  case.”  In  short,  Mr.  Printer,  what  will 
you  have  on ’t  ?  to  the  coronation  we  went. 

What  difficulties  we  had  in  getting  a  coach ;  how  we 
were  shoved  about  in  the  mob ;  how  I  had  my  pocket 
picked  of  the  last  new  almanac,  and  my  steel  tobacco- 
box  ;  how  my  daughter  lost  half  an  eye-brow,  and  her 
laced  shoe  in  a  gutter ;  my  wife’s  lamentation  upon  this, 
with  the  adventures  of  a  crumbled  plum-cake  ;  relate  all 
these ;  we  suffered  this  and  ten  times  more  before  we  got 
to  our  places. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  seated.  My  wife  is  certain¬ 
ly  a  heart  of  oak ;  I  thought  sitting  up  in  the  damp  night- 
air  would  have  killed  her  ;  I  have  known  her  for  two 
months  take  possession  of  our  easy  chair,  mobbed  up  in 
flannel  night-caps,  and  trembling  at  a  breath  of  air ;  but 
she  now  bore  the  night  as  merrily  as  if  she  had  sat  up  at 
a  christening.  My  daughter  and  she  did  not  seem  to 
value  it  a  farthing.  She  told  me  two  or  three  stories 
that  she  knows  will  always  make  me  laugh,  and  my 
daughter  sung  me  “  the  noon-tide  air,”  towards  one  o’clock 
in  the  morning.  However,  with  all  their  endeavors,  I  was 
as  cold  and  as  dismal  as  ever  I  remember.  If  this  bo 
the  pleasures  of  a  coronation,  cried  I  to  myself,  I  had 
rather  see  the  court  of  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  at 
my  ease  in  Bartholomew  fair. 

Towards  morning,  sleep  began  to  come  fast  upon  me  % 
and  the  sun  rising  and  warming  the  air,  still  inclined  me 
lo  rest  a  little.  You  must  know,  sir,  that  I  am  naturally  > 
of  a  sleepy  constitution ;  I  have  often  sat  up  at  a  table 

45 


530 


ESSAYS. 


with  my  eyes  open,  and  have  been  asleep  all  the  while 
What  will  you  have  on ’t  ?  just  about  eight  o’clock  in  the 
morning  I  fell  asleep.  I  fell  into  the  most  pleasing  dream 
in  the  world.  I  shall  never  forget  it ;  I  dreamed  that  I 
was  at  my  lord-mayor’s  feast,  and  had  scaled  the  crust  of 
a  venison-pasty;  I  kept  eating  and  eating,  in  my  sleep, 
and  thought  I  could  never  have  enough.  After  some 
time,  the  pasty,  melhought,  was  taken  away,  and  the  des¬ 
sert  was  brought  in  its  room.  Thought  I  to  myself,  if  I 
have  not  got  enough  of  venison,  I  am  resolved  to  make 
it  up  by  the  largest  snap  at  the  sweet-meats.  According¬ 
ly  I  grasped  a  whole  pyramid  ;  the  rest  of  the  guests  see¬ 
ing  me  with  so  much,  one  gave  me  a  snap,  the  other  gave 
me  a  snap ;  I  was  pulled  this  way  by  my  neighbor  on 
my  right  hand,  and  that  way  by  my  neighbor  on  the 
left,  but  still  kept  my  ground  without  flinching,  and  con¬ 
tinued  eating  and  pocketing  as  fast  as  I  could.  I  never 
was  so  pulled  and  handled  in  my  whole  life.  At  length, 
however,  going  to  smell  to  a  lobster  that  lay  before  me, 
methought  it  caught  me  with  its  claws  fast  by  tne  nose. 
The  pain  I  felt  upon  this  occasion  is  inexpressible ;  in 
fact,  it  broke  my  dream  ;  when  awaking  I  found  my 
wife  and  daughter  applying  a  smelling-bottle  to  my  nose, 
and  telling  me  it  was  time  to  go  home  ;  they  assured  me 
every  means  had  been  tried  to  awake  me,  while  the  pro¬ 
cession  was  going  forward,  but  that  1  still  continued  to 
sleep  till  the  whole  ceremony  was  over.  Mr.  Printer, 
this  is  a  hard  case,  and  as  I  read  your  most  ingenious 
work,  it  will  be  some  comfort,  when  I  see  this  inserted, 
to  find  that - 1  write  for  it  too. 

1  am,  sir,  Your  distressed  humble  servant, 

L.  Gao gan. 


